


This Is Not My Beautiful House, This is Not My Beautiful Wife

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age of Ultron FIx-It Fic, AoU was the worst continuity dump ever, Brainwashing, Clint Barton Lives on a Farm, Emotional Manipulation, Everyone is a Potty Mouth, F/M, Friends to Enemies to Friends Again to Lovers, I won't hurt them I promise, If you like the Barton kids then I'm sorry, It's Not a Flying Car, Laura Barton Agent of Hydra, Look Up in the Sky, MCU AU, SO SORRY, Second Chances, The Red Room, Tony wasn't joking when he said he could make the tractor sentient, Unhappy Reunions, and Third Chances, but i'm still sorry, dysfunction, the author is a horrible person, what really happened in budapest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-04-07 18:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14086977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: “When the hell were you gonna come clean about this, Nat?”“Clint…”“This is the kind of thing friends tell each other. Like, ‘Hey, that haircut makes your head look like a turnip,’ or ‘I drank the last of the milk and didn’t buy anymore because I spent the rest of my money on Amazon Prime.’” Clint plowed his fingers through his hair and glared at his best friend.“Telling me ‘Hey, your wife isn’t really your wife’ is something you could’ve gotten around to telling me.”





	1. Advil and Dremels

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fix-it fic that has been eating at me ever since AoU. I hated the BruceTasha garbage romance, I hated the convenient “Clint’s family lives on an off-grid farm because SHIELD said they could” cop-out that made zero sense in the framework of the canon set by the movies, and Nat and Clint’s chat about “cognitive recalibration” in the first Avengers movie stuck with me.
> 
> Once again, the author is a horrible person. Here is the “Clint was brainwashed all along by HYDRA and everything he thinks he knows is a lie” AU that nobody asked for.

The ‘R’ flickered. Clint wondered for a moment if he’d imagined it.

“...I know you were thinking about knocking down that wall in the dining room, but what do you think of just leaving it where it is and just making that room a solarium?” 

“Huh?”

“A solarium. A sun room.”

“A sun room.”

“Were you listening to me at all for the past ten minutes?”

“Uh. Yeah. Sure.”

“Tell me what I just said.”

“A sun room. Manhattan. Strawberry. Gasoline. Banana.”

“Wow,” she mused. “Nothing gets by you. Such laser focus.” Laura smirked at him from across the kitchen as she set the fresh pan of banana bread on a padded trivet so she didn’t burn the pine table’s surface.

“Yeah. Hey, since when do baby clothes flicker?”

“What was that, now?” Her smirk remained in place, but a tiny divot appeared between Laura’s brows.

“I know you got Nate a little light-up onesie for Christmas, and it was cute, but this one flickers, too. Did you just buy it?”

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?”

“His onesie! The ‘R’ just blinked at me.”

Laura snorted, and the divot between her brows didn’t go away. Her smile, though.

It slipped. Just a notch.

She came up to him and took the baby from him, bouncing him on her hip. Then she leaned in and took a sniff and handed him back to Clint. “Nice. Distracting Mommy with some nonsense claim and ignoring the fact that your boy here needs fresh pants. You’re on diaper duty, Barton.”

“What?” Clint gave her a look of mock outrage. “It’s not nonsense! I know what I saw!”

“You ignored what you _smelled_ ,” she told him. Laura folded her arms and gave him a pointed, are-you-shitting-me-right-now look. “Change him.”

“Mommy! I need help with my spelling homework!” Lila twisted her body around in the kitchen chair, staring expectantly at her parents.

“See! She’s asking for help! Daddy will help you, sweetheart!”

“Oooooh, no you won’t,” Laura argued. 

“What? I can help with spelling. I’m a great speller!”

“Honey?” Laura asked her. “What word do you need Daddy to help you spell?”

“Ostrich!”

“Ostrich? That’s… aw, I can spell that, sweetie.”

“Go ahead,” Laura told him smugly, shifting her weight to her hip and keeping her arms crossed. Clint scowled up at her while Nate patted his face and grinned his drooly grin. Clint tried - and failed - to ignore the odor wafting up at him from his son’s waistband.

“It’s easy! Uh… A-U-S… wait…”

“HA!” Laura pointed at him with judgment. “Diaper duty, buddy!” 

“What?! Wait, I get a do-over!”

“Mommy’s a good speller,” Lila told him. Sympathy joined mischief in her big brown eyes as Laura sat beside her at the kitchen table and began flipping through her daughter’s spelling book. Clint stared at Nate, who grinned back at him, grunting for emphasis. Clint wrinkled his nose.

“Aw, diaper, no!!!”

 

Clint carried his son, holding him out from his body as he rushed to the back of the house. He grabbed the vinyl-lined changing pad, the tub of wet wipes, and a size 3 Luvs from the hanging cloth stacker that had a stuffed elephant head on top of it. Nate’s nursery was a sea of Noah’s Ark animals and pastel colors. Sometimes, when Clint needed some quiet time that didn’t involve target practice, he retreated here, sat in the rocking chair that he made for Laura, and just… veged out. 

He laid the baby on the changing pad and he tugged down the tiny sweats. “Oh, buddy, go easy on Daddy, if you love him at all.”

Nate hiccuped at him and giggled, batting at Clint’s hands as he cautiously peeled back the diaper tapes.

“Oh, good LORD!”

The baby laughed at his histrionics, and for a moment, Clint thought he saw the lettering on Nate’s onesie flicker again. “I know your mommy is pranking me, buying a blinking shirt off of Amazon or Babies R Us and pretending she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.”

Nate gurgled in response.

“Yeah, I know you’re not gonna clue me in,” Clint said. “Geez, buddy, what’d you _eat_?”

Clint wadded up the diaper and soiled wipes and put his son into a bath, because what was a Friday evening without a diaper blowout that went all the way up his son’s back?

Clint threw the offending onesie into the sink to soak while he bathed him, checking it for a battery pack. Natasha’s sweater that she wore to the Stark tower Christmas party had one, along with some highly inappropriate humping reindeer. You couldn’t call Natasha Romanoff sentimental about the holidays, but Clint decided she knew how to celebrate them with conviction.

And alcohol. 

Clint checked his calendar. Nat was due back from Belize in a week. She already showed him the souvenirs she was bringing back for Lila, Cooper and Nate during their Skype chat. Now, he’d have to hear Laura and Nat bickering about plans for a solarium versus a plain dining room, acting like just because he was retired from SHIELD, that he had all the time in the world for home improvement and endless trips to Lowes. The guy in the lumber aisle saw him coming from a mile away and knew his name and number. 

Clint sometimes missed the old days of being able to roll down the street in his old, battered RX-7 that only seated him and whatever lapse in judgment that smiled back at him from the passenger seat. His Ford supercab guzzled gas, but he needed it to haul kids to school and groceries and lumber and household appliances and tractor parts, and God help him, sometimes life seemed so much easier when he was just a circus act or a spy.

Nate splashed around in the bath water from his perch in the little plastic security ring while Clint massaged the cloyingly sweet baby shampoo into his tiny, not-quite- bald scalp. He heard Laura and Lila in the kitchen working on spelling words; Lila’s voice recited the letters at a halting, almost infuriating pace. Laura told her, “Remember the rule: ‘i’ before ‘e’ except after ‘c,’” which was a patent lie, because that sure as hell never helped Clint to spell _shit_. Then again, neither did being a polyglot. Once you started speaking Russian and French, well… forget it. You never had the same relationship with vowels ever again. Not that it was a bad thing, but… yeah. Clint sucked at spelling. That fact didn’t escape him. Or Lila.

But, hey. If she needed her old man to teach her how to walk a tightrope or pick a lock, he was her pigeon.

An hour later, Laura looked up from her book and told him, “Come to bed.”

“In a minute.”

“What are you doing on there?”

“Looking at dremels.”

“You already have a dremel.”

“I know, but these are nice.”

“What are you thinking of dremeling?”

“Dunno. Maybe some new cabinets.”

“We just replaced the cabinets six months ago.”

“Well, maybe they could use some dremeling.”

“Clint… what’s up, hon?”

Clint sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t even know.”

“You’ve been edgy, lately.” Laura set down her book and peeled back the covers, patting the space next to her. Clint’s shoulders relaxed a notch, and he logged off of his laptop. Laura wore his gray shirt with the tower logo, a stocking stuffer from Tony, because _Tony_. But she looked good in it, curves still trim and firm after three kids and a life spent on the farm. Her hair was still shiny from her shower, hanging down past her shoulders and begging for him to sweep it back from her neck. Clint smiled, and she snickered when he growled and hug-tackled her.

Okay.

_Okay._

This was fine.

 

*

They lay curled together under the covers, lights extinguished. Her hair tickled his lips and he stroked her arm where it lay over his chest, softly trapping him.

_I know that damn onesie flickered._

His dreams were troubled. Fractured. Images that didn’t make sense rolled around in his head. Places he’d never been. Faces he’d never met.

Why was everyone screaming?

*

The next morning, over coffee and his sunny-side-ups, Clint frowned.

“What? What’s that look for?”

“Hm.”

“What?” Laura stared at him, holding the orange juice carafe. The divot was back between her brows and wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.

“Were you blonde back when we met?”

She huffed. “We went to that costume party that my roommate held after we’d dated for a month. I went as Alice, remember? You were the Cheshire cat.”

He nodded, smile wide with relief and reassurance. “That’s right.”

He went back to dipping his toast into his yokes. Laura’s smile faded once she turned to put the orange juice back in the fridge.

 

*

 

He wandered inside the following afternoon, wiping his forehead on his wrist, smearing dirt through the sweat before he took off his work gloves. “We got any Advil? The brand name kind?”

“Sure. In the cupboard, next to the garlic salt.”

“Garlic salt, garlic salt… garlic… right. Here we go.”

“Did you hurt yourself, hon?”

“Nah. Just have a headache. It’s a doozy. Head just started throbbing, and I started seeing spots. Hope it’s not a migraine again.”

“Again?” Laura set down the pair of socks she’d just folded. “What do you mean, again? You don’t get migraines.”

“I didn’t think I did, either,” he told her, shrugging. “Until last night, anyway.”

“You… had one last night?”

“Yeah. Thought someone just reached their fingers into my skull and tore it in half. Started seeing things, weird, flashing lights, and my mouth tasted like I licked a tire.” Clint shook out two pills into his palm, ignoring how dirty it was, and he chased them down with a gulp of juice. 

“Maybe you got too much sun.”

“No. It’s not that,” he assured her, even though it probably was, and she was probably right, but Clint had logs to split. They weren’t going to split themselves. The juice tasted like battery acid, and his ears began to ring, but he smiled at her and handed her the empty juice glass. “I’m fine, sweetheart.” He kissed the crown of her cheek and gave her hip a brief pat.

“If you say so.”

“I’m fine. He headed for the back door and let the screen slam shut.

“If I have to scrape you up off the ground a few minutes from now, can I say ‘I told you so?’” she called after him.

“You know you can!” he called back.

“Just thought I’d ask,” she murmured as she went back to the laundry pile.

Her hands shook as she continued to fold the socks.

*

 

Nat showed up four days later on a custom Ducati, respecting Clint’s wishes that she wear a helmet to set her niece and nephews a good example. She showered them with hugs and loud raspberries against their cheeks while Clint crowed, “What’d you bring me? I’ve been a good boy! Laura, tell her I’ve been a good boy!”

Laura and Nat exchanged looks. Nat cocked one auburn brow at him and handed him a small bag. 

“I brought back some of those caramel candies you like.”

“The ones made of goat’s milk?” He made grabby hands for it, and she relented as he unwrapped one quickly, shoved it into his mouth, and let his eyes roll back in his head. “Bless you,” he told her, voice garbled. He headlocked her and kissed her temple, making Laura snicker, which was a common occurrence when his partner in crime showed up. 

“You know I’ll never get him to settle down if you give him sugar.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

Nat handed Laura a small gift bag. “I got you a little something, too.”

“Looks like a bribe.”

“No. It’s a turtle.”

And it was. Carved out of polished stone. “Brat.”

“Do you love it?”

“Yes. But you’re still a brat.”

“Hey, she said it this time, not me,” Clint chimed in as he ate another caramel. “Hey, now that you two are done being mushy, Nat and I have to knock down the wall.”

“Is that what we’re still doing?” 

“Well, yeah, honey. Solarium. Right? Terrarium? Aquarium? We decided on a solarium, right?”

“A sun room,” Nat mused. “I guess that would work for the space you have.”

“We never eat in the dining room,” Laura reminded her, as though she still had to.

“You never do,” Nat confirmed. “I mean, it’s nice, if you actually needed a dining room, but you really don’t.”

“Right? I was thinking of a nice picture window. I want to hang some nice crystals in front of it, so that by mid-morning, everything’s covered in rainbows.”

“I like rainbows, Mommy,” Lila told her from the floor. Lila and Cooper fidgeted where they sat, clutching gamepads and blowing things up onscreen.

“You would,” Cooper muttered, earning himself a shoulder check.

“God, they’re getting big,” Nat said. Her expression was nostalgic, but Clint knew she made the statement for Laura’s benefit. Natasha wasn’t in the habit of being wistful. She went over to Nate’s play yard and grinned at him, earning herself his babbles. He flattered her even further by pulling himself up by the mesh and bouncing on his heels for her to pick him up. She bent over the side and lifted him out, cooing at him and indulging his grab for her nose. She gobbled up the palm of his plump hand to make him giggle, and Clint felt a familiar pang for the things she could have, that she wouldn’t allow herself to want.

“Damn it,” he muttered, feeling his eyes spark for a moment.

Laura reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. She stared at him with understanding and shared sympathy. “M’fine,” he mouthed.

Laura nodded and released him. “Who wants lemonade?”

“I do!” everyone chorused, and the kitchen gradually filled with the sounds of clinking glasses and ice cubes, and the scents of herbs and vegetables hitting sizzling oil as Laura started a stew.

The adults nursed glasses of lemonade on the veranda and watched the clouds roll in. Nat looked surprisingly suburban in a pair of distressed jeans, so old that they were velvety, and a white, floral print blouse that fluttered in the light breeze.

“How was Belize?”

“Mmmm. The usual. Food was good. Almost got taken out by a car bomb while I was escorting the mayor as part of the security detail. Nothing new.”

“Piece of cake.”

“Tore my new skirt, though.”

“That’s a shame. You got that from H&M, right?” Laura glanced past Clint to catch Nat’s rueful nod.

“On that sale they had.”

“That blows.”

“I was pretty upset.”

“I don’t know what I would have done about that.”

“I took him down with one of my stingers and got my wire around his throat before he could recover.”

“Oh.” Laura sat back in her rocker and took another gulp of lemonade. “Hm.”

“Hm,” Clint agreed.

The sky was always so pretty at that time of day. The kids were enjoying their games, the stew was bubbling on the stove, and the noise in his head had died down a notch. Clint felt calm and easy in his skin. His best girl and his best friend were within arm’s reach, and Clint had a project to work on. He wasn’t running from anyone. He wasn’t crashing through the brush or leaping off of a plane or a building or shooting anyone, and it felt _good_. He wouldn’t let Fury pull him back into field work for a million dollars, no matter how big shiny and pretty a bow he wrapped around it.

So. Y’know.

He shouldn’t have been all that surprised when everything crashed down around his ears and went to shit.


	2. Is You Is or Is You Ain’t My Baby?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint shrugged and took a gulp of his own drink. “Been getting weird headaches. And I can’t stop dreaming about weird shit.”
> 
> “How weird are we talking? Like, reading your book report in high school in front of the class naked weird, ‘I had too much tequila and fish tacos too late at night’ weird, or shell-shock weird?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was surprised and impressed to see that “What Really Happened in Budapest” are actually common tags on out Ao3. Still won’t stop me from taking a crack at it.
> 
> But, yeah, the domestic cute parts of this are just about over. Have some angst.

The only thing Clint loved more than swinging a sledgehammer was shooting a target full of arrows. Enjoying his second love with his best friend made it even better. Nat’s muscles gleamed with sweat as she swung her hammer, knocking out another chunk of drywall and showering the hardwood floor with dust. Laura took the kids to the pond and rented them a paddle bike for the afternoon, leaving Nat and Clint to work on the demo in peace. Nat pulled down her mask and took a sip of her coffee. There were dusty rings around her face where the mask ended, but her green eyes looked satisfied behind the safety visor. Nat’s red hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail and speckled with dust. 

“This is coming along.”

“Right?”

“We might be able to take care of the rest of it in an hour.”

“Feels good to break something.”

“Yeah? You okay?”

“Eh. Who knows.” Clint shrugged and took a gulp of his own drink. “Been getting weird headaches. And I can’t stop dreaming about weird shit.”

“How weird are we talking? Like, reading your book report in high school in front of the class naked weird, ‘I had too much tequila and fish tacos too late at night’ weird, or shell-shock weird?”

“Shell shock. Robots. Arrows. And all these weird places I don’t even remember going.”

“Hm.” Natasha put her mask back on, so she sounded muffled when she spoke. “Robots?”

“Well, yeah. Kinda expected that.”

“Sure. Who hasn’t had that dream.”

Clint chuckled. It sounded rusty and insincere. “Sometimes, I ask myself how this is my life.”

“Why? It’s turned out all right.”

“This is.” He nodded around the room. “This took work. This takes effort. I have to remember to care enough if I live or die, because I have people to live for, now.”

Her hand curled around his upper arm. “Hey. Don’t. Don’t think that…” Her words cut off, and her lips flattened into a thin line. “Clint.”

“I have people to live for,” he repeated.

“You do. Looks good on you, Barton.”

“Think so?” Clint took a hold of his belly and managed to squeeze a scant inch. “Think Laura’s been feeding me too many carbs. I was looking online and found myself browsing the relaxed fit jeans.”

“Frightening.”

“Yeah.”

“No need to be that desperate. Those just make a ‘Dad Bod’ worse. Stick with boot-cut.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

They worked past the hour they guesstimated and drank more coffee. Nat fixed them a simple lunch of hot dogs and store-bought potato salad.

“I didn’t think we had any buns.”

“We have perfectly good bread. Don’t be precious about it. Roll that bread, buddy.”

“God, this is how my mom used to do hot dogs.”

“There’s no need to be fancy about processed meat.”

“I knew there was a reason why I liked you.”

They ate on the back porch, deciding not to drop crumbs on top of all the dust and broken plaster. 

“Ever want to go back to on the payroll?”

“Already on the payroll. Just not back in the field.”

“Pension isn’t the same thing.”

“I don’t need much else, Nat. I’ve got my hands pretty full.”

“You’re not even a little bored?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“I’m good.”

“Sure, you are.”

Nat sipped from her glass of lemonade and sighed, scraping back a strand of hair that worked its way between her lips. “Not many men with your skill set and background who can settle for his, Barton.”

“They usually don’t live that long.”

“Can’t argue that.”

“You getting lonely?”

Natasha huffed and raised her brow at him. “Hardly. Someone’s got to babysit Rogers.”

“Rogers has Hill and Wilson to babysit him.”

“Not likely. Sam’s just as bad. And Hill just keeps tabs on them. ‘Keeping tabs’ and actually caring about someone’s welfare aren’t the same, especially now that she’s working for Stark.”

“You worked for Stark. Seemed like you cared about his welfare.”

“I thought I was just doing my job.”

Clint snorted into his lemonade, coughing as he horked some of it out of his nose.

“He has Potts to care about his welfare. That’s _her_ full-time job. That, my friend, is babysitting.”

“Okay.” He wiped his face on his sleeve and winced at the sting in his nostrils. “Hey. Sure you’re not getting lonely?”

“We’ve had this talk, Barton.”

“Yeah? Well, guess what? We’re having it again. How long are you planning to do this?”

“I don’t know. How does retirement even work when you’re a spy? Do I stop when there’s no one left to chase me, or until I just get too tired to keep running? I don’t see myself ending up on a farm, Barton.”

“Nothing wrong with life off the grid.”

“Wi-fi connection isn’t great. And there’s a lot of bugs.”

“That’s what window screens are for. Don’t be such a baby.” Clint stared off into the distance, enjoying the way the wind made the tall grass and trees sway. 

“This is fine for you. You’ve always wanted stability. Now, you have it.”

“What, and you can’t? That’s bullshit, Natasha.”

“Even if this was what I wanted, and it’s _not_ , it’s just not the right fit. Hand me a hammer, and I’m good at breaking things, Clint. Firewalls. Intelligence networks. Corrupt regimes.” Clint smiled and nodded. 

“Sure.”

“I’m not good at building things, Barton. That includes trust. And relationships.”

“You could be very good for someone, if you wanted to.”

“Who said I wanted to? And what would they need to do to be good for me?”

“Be real,” he told her simply. 

This time, she was the one who laughed. It made her eyes crinkle in a way that was a weakness of his. Clint remembered nights in crawl spaces and on rooftops, or crammed into safehouses that smelled like mildew and gun oil. They would stay up all night listening to surveillance feeds and talking until they were hoarse, and he’d tell her terrible jokes to take the edge off. After assuring him that he was a horrible person for having the temerity to think he was funny, she’d laugh, scrunching that cute little nose and showing dimples that rarely made an appearance.

“Be real.” She shook her head. “Clearly, you haven’t spent much time on Match.”

“Because I don’t have to, if you haven’t noticed. Hello? Three kids, hot wife?”

“Touche. Fair enough. I’m just saying, Clint. Who’s real, anymore? Well… Rogers is, but he made it clear that he ain’t buying what I’m selling.”

“Ooh.”

“Yeah.”

“Ouch. That’s rough, Nat.”

“It’s no big deal. I mean, he wasn’t a dick about it. It was just a bit of an ego killer.”

“Whatever. You could do better. He’s not your type, anyway.”

“I don’t have a type!”

“Everybody has a type. And your type isn’t him. He’s judgy. And he’s too fucking wholesome. If you dated him, Nat, I’d give you two a week. Maybe two. You’d annoy the crap out of each other.”

“Really?”

“He looks like he double-dips his nachos. Life’s too short for that shit, young lady.”

“Oh, God…”

“And those khakis are a crime against civilization.”

“He’s getting better.”

“If you say so.”

“You didn’t see the suit.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, God, Clint… _the_ suit. He wore it the night we landed on that ship and took down Batroc. Stealth suit. Not that star-spangled horror.”

Clint made a thoughtful sound. “He can’t rock purple like I can.”

“Well, of course he can’t.”

Clint’s smile was smug and satisfied. He leaned back and drained his lemonade down to the bare cubes in the glass, then sucked one into his mouth to chew on it.

“Y’know. Just to let you know, Nat… you’re always welcome here. If you need a break, or just a kid fix, or whatever. Come visit. Take things apart with me. Watch me be uncouth at the dinner table and come play in the dirt. All right?”

“I know.”

“I’m serious. Just take a break once in a while and check in.”

“Whatever you say, Barton. And _you_ know where to find _me_.”

“I’d rather find you somewhere that you’re not getting shot at. Be a nice change of pace.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

*

 

“Give me all your fives.”

“Go fish.”

“Aw, fives, no!” Clint began collecting cards from the deck, ending up with six until he got a pair. “Quit enjoying this so much, Romanoff.” She stuck her tongue out at him in a long-practiced gesture.

“Who wants snickerdoodles?” Laura brought out a perfect plate of cookies and set them down on the table. Lila and Cooper ran over and snatched up a handful each, making Clint playfully swat at them.

“Hey, get your own!” he called after them. Laura went to the play yard and picked up Nate, handing him his bottle, which he managed to shove into his own mouth. He sucked at it noisily, letting Laura tip him back slightly as she sat down on the couch. The dining room was walled off with sheets of plastic to limit the dust, and they were watching _Cake Wars_ as they ate dessert. 

“I was pricing windows today,” Laura told him. 

“Already ordered ‘em,” Clint informed her around a mouthful of cookie. 

“Aren’t you efficient?” She winked at Nat and gently rocked Nate, coaxing him to settle in for the night. His little hand came up and hook a finger around a lock of her hair as he continued to drink.

Clint felt his head buzz and his good ear made him feel like he was listening to the conversation underwater.

“...you might get a better price on new flooring downtown, unless you’re considering laminate. Clint?” 

“Laminate,” he repeated, and his voice sounded rough.

“What’s wrong?”

“Head… hurts.”

Laura’s frown matched Nat’s.

“Advil…”

“It’s not helping,” Laura argued.

“Is it your hearing aid?” Nat wondered.

“It’s not my hearing aid, damn it!”

He scolded himself for letting that come out more loudly than he’d intended. Nate’s eyes popped open, even though they had begun drifting shut a few moments before.

“They’ve been getting more frequent, lately,” Laura told Natasha.

“I just need some Advil…”

“I’ll get it,” Natasha decided. “I have some in my bag.”

“Don’t bother. There’s some in the cupboard, the one with the garlic...salt…”

Clint felt the room spin. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye and gasped as pain speared into his skull. Natasha heard his breath hitch again, and she hurried to the cabinet, abandoning her playing cards. She dashed water into a glass and returned with two of the pills. “Take it easy. Here.”

“Hurts. Shit… spots. Too bright.”

“When did these start?”

“I don’t know… God… Nat, I feel like crap…”

“Take these. Wash them down. C’mon, that’s it…” Nat’s face swam in his vision, and her green eyes were filled with concern. That was wrong, his brain supplied. Since when did Nat worry about _him?_

Everything felt hazy and wobbly. Nat’s voice sounded odd to him. That was a first. His brain was twisting the sound of it. Bringing back memories… old ones.

Bad ones.

A fragment of a vision struck him. How she looked, standing in the dark. Staring back at him with wide, horrified eyes once she realized she’d been made. After figuring out his purpose as he raised the small crossbow straight at her face.

Nat knelt in front of him now, squeezing his forearm. “Take it easy. Come lie down, Clint-”

“Don’t… wanna lie down…”

“Shit,” she hissed. “That’s not a feasible answer, pal.”

Laura told them, “I’m going to put the baby down” before she made her way out of the room.

“Are you okay, Daddy?” Lila inquired. She hovered in the doorway, still dressed in her day clothes of striped leggings and a pink tunic. Her hair hung in fraying pigtails and she had flecks of sugar around her mouth from the cookies. Her eyes were round with uncertainty.

“He’s okay, honey, his head just hurts. Daddy just needs a minute to get himself together, right, Dad?”

“ _FUCK._ ”

Nat hushed him and gave his daughter an apologetic smile, but he batted her hand away when she tried to help him to his feet. When he glared up at Nat, his face was flushed and clammy.

The Advil wasn’t helping.

This wasn’t him. This wasn’t Clint. Something had a grip on him.

“Burns… God, it burnsitburnsithot… my head’s hot, Nat…”

“Okay, okay…” She got up and went to the freezer and took down an ice tray. She flexed the tray and cracked several cubes out of it, wrapping them in a dish towel. She doused it with water hurried back to him, setting it against his nape. “Breathe, Barton. Relax.”

“Everything feels wrong.” His voice sounded strained. Labored.

“Stay with me.”

“Feels wrong. This is _wrong_.”

“Clint, do you know where you are?”

“No.”

That made fear lance through her heart. “You’re in your house. In the same house we spent the day yesterday knocking the shit out of with hammers.”

“Mommy, they said bad words,” Lila informed Laura as she returned.

“Nate’s about to doze off,” she told them. “How is he?”

“Was he like this before?” Nat’s voice didn’t rise in volume, but it held an accusatory note.

Laura straightened up. “Not like this. He’s _never_ been like this.”

“Just breathe, Barton,” Natasha coached. “Your wife is here. Okay?”

“She is?” His voice sounded doubtful. 

The room continued to spin. Natasha’s eyes looked fearful. Clint didn’t like that. It meant the world was going to end any minute, and that they two of them would be left holding the bag.

Just like Budapest.

“Oh, God, not Budapest…”

“Budapest?” Laura scowled.

“Clint?”

“Where’s my wife?”

“I’m right here, baby.” Laura knelt in front of him, gently edging Natasha out of his line of vision.

His hand reached up and gently touch her cheek. He shook his head.

“No. Not.” He tried to find the right words. “Not. You.”

*

 

He woke up on his bed. The bedside lamp was on, and his head still throbbed. Clint’s eyes flitted around the room, but even that made his head throb. He heard Nat and Laura’s voices murmuring on the other side of the room. 

“We’ll keep you posted, Stark,” he heard Nat say, and he heard the low beep as she hung up her call. Then he heard her feet moving across the room. “Clint?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit in the head with a box of hammers. Just a typical Friday night.”

He heard her laugh of accord. “Okay. Now you sound like you.”

“Who did I sound like before? I mean, it’s okay if it was someone like George Carlin. I used to love him.”

Laura joined them, and Clint felt the edge of the bed sink under her weight. She gently stroked his hair back from his brow. “Hey, big guy. How are you feeling? I almost called the paramedics.” Her touch was cool and her face was calm, but he felt her tension.

“I talked her out of it. I called JARVIS instead,” Natasha explained. “Nice thing about Starktech is that it’s portable.”

“And tangible,” a familiar male voice informed them, and as if Clint’s head hadn’t played enough tricks on him for one night, that android with the raspberry pink skin and shiny green suit came sashaying into the room like he owned the place. “Hello again, Clint.”

“Wait… Vision, right?”

“Correct.”

“You’re a snappy dresser.”

“Why, thank you. Mr. Stark has attempted lately to expand my knowledge of couture and socially acceptable attire, but he agreed that this would suffice for a cross-country flight.”

“Most people just send edible arrangements. Stark sends robots.”

“I’m a technologically advanced android, with other enhancements that might not bear explaining right now, in light of your current condition.”

“What is my current condition?”

“That’s still not clear. But I managed to stabilize you. You were about to have a stroke.”

“How did you stabilize me?”

“I watched him phase his hand through your skull.”

“I evacuated the offending blood clot, sir.”

“Jesus…”

“Thankfully, I had already put the kids to bed,” Laura assured him. “Right before he gave me a heart attack.”

“Awwwww. Babe.” Clint reached up and touched her cheek again, even though the small movement felt off-kilter while he was so groggy. “I’ve got a hard head. Knew that when you married me.”

She gave him a brittle laugh. “You sure? You didn’t sound sure of that before.”

“Before what?”

“We can save that talk for later.” Nat’s voice was firm, but she gave Laura a cool look. That bothered Clint. He hoped his best girls hadn’t scuffled over what to do with him while he was out?

“She means when you told us earlier that I wasn’t your wife,” Laura clarified.

Nat’s lips tightened again.

“Whoa… what? I said that?”

“You weren’t yourself.”

“Oh, sure I am,” he told them. “Just a little worn around the edges.” He gestured for Laura to meet him, and she leaned down and kissed him. “Course you’re my wife. Geez, Nat.”

“Seemed a little uncertain.”

“You were our best woman,” Clint reminded Natasha. “You made sure I didn’t lose the ring.”

“We had differences of opinion of where he should keep it,” Nat supplied.

“I don’t even wanna know.” Laura’s voice was deadpan, and she was surprisingly calm for a woman whose husband had just missed having a stroke.

“You said the kids are in bed?” Clint asked.

“Uh-huh. I figured this was too much excitement for them.”

“I wanna kiss ‘em good night.”

“Kiss them good morning, instead. It’s late, sweetheart.”

“If you have no further need of me, I’ll be taking the specimen with me and returning to Mr. Stark’s lab at the tower.” Vision edged back from the bed, looking expectant.

“Specimen?”

“Yes, Mrs. Barton. The blood clot. Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho will be interested in testing it. They will contact you for a follow-up examination tomorrow.”

“Awwww, a checkup? I hate check-ups.”

“You need this one, Clint,” Natasha reminded him. 

He felt her frustration with him and knew she’d eventually forgive him for being that compromised on one of the few visits she’d made to his home. 

Laura, though.

Her smile seemed gentle and calm, but if Clint didn’t know better, he’d almost say she was…

Fuming.

Anxious.

Clint could read people pretty well. Helped him, in his particular line of work. 

He was struggling to read his wife at the moment. Couldn’t quite figure out that look in her eye or the set of her shoulders. The way her eyes kept flicking over his face, not wanting to linger long enough to return his gaze.

*

 

Clint remained in bed after Vision left. Laura and Natasha took the time to decompress in the kitchen. Laura put the kettle on to boil and loaded mugs with tea bags and lemon wedges. Nat sat at the table, legs stretched out and slumped in her chair.

“I figured tonight’s entertainment would include a jigsaw puzzle. Or a game of rummy.”

“Us Bartons are full of surprises.”

Nat huffed, nodding. Laura handed her the mug and set a jar of honey on the center of the table.

“So. That wasn’t his first headache.”

“He said it was a migraine. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“He had a clean bill of health when he signed onto SHIELD. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have taken him.”

“He’s been fine this whole time,” Laura insisted. “These headaches came out of the blue.”

“Has he been eating any differently?”

“He still drinks too much coffee,” she muttered. “Try prying that pot of French roast out of his hand, though. Be my guest.”

“He’s drunk a pot a day since I’ve known him,” Nat agreed. “But he’s never been like this.”

“Not even on his worst day.”

Both women sat there, making silent comparisons. Knowing that neither of them would ever agree on what the other would call “Clint’s Worst Day.”

“I’m glad you’re here. Clint’s been so excited about your visit, Nat.”

Nat smiled as the kettle whistled. She drizzled honey into her cup, making the tea bag in her cup sag beneath its sticky puddle.

“Sometimes, it’s just nice to talk to someone with similar life experience.”

She stole Rogers’ words. They seemed to fit, now.

“Oh, sure. Guess you guys have your war stories.”

Laura filled both of their cups, and Nat stirred hers while it steeped. 

“They’d fill a book. Then we’d have to burn it.”

“Hmmm.”

The women sat and listened to the clock ticking. “Kids are awfully quiet.”

“They fell asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow.”

“Hope they weren’t too upset to see him like that. Lila seemed a little worried.”

“She’s Daddy’s girl, all right.”

Laura’s smile was tight over her teacup.

Nat took a cautious sip of her tea. It tasted a little like oolong, mixed with something else. She stirred it to let the honey dissipate through the brew to cover up that bitter little tang.

“They always enjoy when their auntie Nat comes to visit, too.”

“Hey, I love them, but at the end of the day, I get to give them back,” Nat bragged. “I envy you, but I don’t _envy_ you.”

“Hahaha, yeah. Okay.” 

Nat’s cup hovered just shy of her lips. “Sorry. That… maybe I didn’t mean for that to sound like it sounded.”

“Yeah. Pretty sure you did.”

Nat set the cup down. Her mouth still tasted bitterness, and she felt tension crawling over her flesh.

“I never know if Clint’s being ironic when he talks about ‘the good old days with me and Nat’ or if they were actually good. If I should actually worry when you two spend so much time together.”

Nat’s blood ran cold. “No. No, Laura… you know me better that that. Don’t assume something like that of him, or of me.”

Laura shrugged. “Okay.” She sipped her tea and looked away.

“Okay.”

“It’s just that I can’t help but think there’s more of a history between you two than either of you lets on.”

Nat abandoned any plan to finish her tea. She felt her cheeks grow warm, and she swiped at the nape of her neck with her palm, kneading it slightly. “What’s to let on? Clint’s just a friend. There’s nothing between us but… cinders. And bloodshed. And a few crumpled cars and demolished buildings.”

Laura huffed a laugh, but Nat shook her head.

“Don’t make assumptions. You don’t know your husband well enough if you think they’re justified.”

“Oh, I know my husband, chickie.” Laura got up and headed for the cabinet. Nat contemplated her tea, but she wondered for a moment why she felt so boggy. Why the cup seemed to be wavering back and forth. Or why there now appeared to be two.

“What…?”

“I know him well enough to know he keeps one of these in the cupboard.”

The small dart hissed through the air, landing squarely in Nat’s shoulder. Nat’s eyes bulged. She jerked in her seat as the nerve toxin did its work. 

“Don’t be too loud, sweetie. The kids are sleeping.”

*

Clint got up to pee, deciding to take care of that now. The Advil was doing its job this time, at least. 

Clint relieved himself and washed his hands, drying them on the back of Laura’s bathrobe, which was hanging on the back of the door. She hadn’t hung up the clean bath towels yet. Clint debated on finding one for himself and taking a shower. Lying on the kitchen floor on the dustballs made him feel kind of funky.

Then he remembered: He still needed to kiss the kids goodnight.

Clint crept quietly through the back hall to Cooper’s room, noticing the door was a little ajar. Laura usually left it cracked so they could hear them if they needed to, and it made it easier for Clint to steal his “stealth kiss” before Laura could scold him. Cooper was starfish-sprawled with his arms flung up over his head, breathing evenly and clearly. Clint smiled at his little face and tugged the covers up over his chest.

The movement stirred the air, and Clint’s eyes picked up a ripple of movement. His pajama shirt rippled. _Shimmered_. Just for a second.

Clint’s brows drew together. He reached down and stroked his son’s hair.

Cooper’s entire body flickered, wavered, then flickered again, and Clint’s breath caught in his throat.

“What?” he whispered. “So. That just happened. Coop?” he murmured, reaching down gingerly to touch him again. “Cooper?”

This time, when his fingertips grazed his chest, a wave of electricity surged up from him and sizzled along Clint’s nerve endings, setting his blood on fire.

“ _Holy…_!!!” Clint was flung backwards, stumbling into Cooper’s dresser, where he sank to the floor.

“Ow,” he muttered. “Fuck…”

*

 

“Why?” Natasha hated the sound of her own slurring and confusion.

“Never mind why. That’s not what matters right now, Agent.”

Natasha stared at her incredulously.

“You knew I slipped a little something special into your nightcap, Widow. Slow-acting, but it gets the job done.” Laura’s dark eyes twinkled with amusement. And malice. “So, here’s what’s going to happen. It’ll take this a couple of days to end up in the news. That’s the beauty of living off-grid. God, I hated this place so much. I find ants in this damned kitchen every morning, no matter how much I clean and spray. It’s just me and the weeds out here. And you were right. The wi-fi signal’s almost nonexistent out here.”

“The kids-”

“The kids. Hmmmm. That’s complicated. Stark isn’t the only man on the planet who knows how to configure AI.”

Nat shook her head.

“Aw. Don’t look so perplexed. It causes wrinkles.”

Nat was having a hard time staying awake. She was still on the floor. Laura sat down at the kitchen table and ate a cookie. 

“These came out well, but I’m more of an oatmeal raisin kind of girl. Snickerdoodles are Clint’s favorites. The things you do for love, huh?”

“Do you… even… love him?”

“That’s complicated, too, Agent.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because I like to respect people who have equal rank. It’s good form.”

Laura reached into the collar of her blouse and pulled the slim silver chain she wore around her neck out from beneath the fabric, revealing the silver pendant that looked like an octopus.

“Oh, my God…”

“Did you really think SHIELD could keep Clint’s entire family secret, even if it was real?”

“I was in your wedding!”

“Were you?” Laura looked nonplussed. She ate another cookie. “Want your gift back? I’ll never use a Cuisinart.”


	3. Love Hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doorway to the barn shimmered and sparked at Clint. He coughed up dust and shrapnel from the blast that just missed turning his ass into Swiss cheese.
> 
> Laura’s - if that was even her real fucking name - voice floated to him from out in the yard. “Sweetheart. I’ve got something for your headache. Might work better than the Advil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so… Cliffhanger last chapter. * ducks rotten tomatoes*
> 
> Don’t give up hope on Clint’s family yet.

Natasha took advantage of her momentary privacy and reached for her tiny arrow pendant. She squeezed it, activating the tiny mechanism on the back. A micro-needle emerged from the casing, and Nat pressed it into her thumb, injecting herself with the antidote.

Laura left Nat behind, an overconfident mistake; Nat wondered if she missed some intel on Nat’s stamina and conditioning, to say nothing of the tech at her disposal. The serum shocked her system on the way into her veins, and as Nat struggled to her feet, she paused to vomit into the sink. Nat gave silent thanks that Clint didn’t bring up the detail in conversations with his wife that the pendant, his birthday gift to Nat, had that bonus feature.

Rogers could take a page out of Clint’s book. _Always compartmentalize your intel. No one needs to know everything._

*

Clint groaned and twitched slowly back to awareness. His equilibrium was rolling around somewhere in the dustballs, he was sure of it.

He heard the sounds of low footsteps in the corridor, followed by the sounds of his desktop booting up inside Laura’s home office. Clint hated to interrupt her if she was about to balance the checkbook or order another shipment of chicken feed, but, yeah… this was pretty important.  
Clint rose to his feet, vision blurred and smelling the scent of his own scorched hair. The darkened room wasn’t helping him. He stumbled toward Cooper’s dresser and turned on the ginger jar lamp, flooding the room with light.

His eyes swung toward the bed, and Clint couldn’t stop the shout that escaped him.  
 _Cooper_.

His body was _smoking._ “COOPER!” Clint coughed on the acrid smoke and watched sparks - _sparks_ \- fly from him and heard an electrical crackling fill the room. “LAURA!” His body flickered again, telling Clint he hadn’t imagined that before. Clint ignored caution and rushed to the bed. He lifted his son’s arm, and Cooper opened his eyes. His irises’ usual blue filled with glowing pinpricks of red light.

“Program. Terminated. Executing self-destruct protocols, alpha-alpha-one.”

Cold fear shot through his chest, and his throat clogged with nausea.

That wasn’t Cooper’s voice. This was tinny-sounding and perfunctory, like the DMV clerk calling out the number of the guy next in line out of a sea of a hundred faces. His son’s image flickered, and beneath his fair, slightly freckled skin, Clint saw gunmetal gray paneling, like armor, teeming with fine wiring and circuitry.

All he’d wanted was a goodnight kiss, for pete’s sake.

Cooper’s voice seemed to mock him. “Good night, Dad.”

“Night, son…” Clint knew better than _not_ to beat feet. This wasn’t his first rodeo. “LAURA! Something’s happened to the kids!” He darted into Lila’s room, and he felt sick at the sight of her, eyes gaping and mouth slack, reciting the same words in the same monotone. Her body sparked and twitched, shaking off the elaborate hologram.

The back half of the house filled with smoke, but he needed to see with his own eyes if whoever ruined his night swapped his youngest born for a ‘bot. He jerked open the door to the nursery, and he watched smoke rise from the crib.

He couldn’t watch that sweet baby self-destruct. Not while his soul was already dying. Because there were things that Clint had come back from in his life - so many unspeakable, unholy things - but he wouldn’t come back from _that_.

He scrambled into the office, still barefoot and shaking off brain fog. “LAURA! Laura!” He rushed to her, where she sat calmly in the new office chair that had been an anniversary gift. “Honey, I don’t know how I did it, but… maybe it wasn’t my fault, I don’t know!”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“The kids!”

“What about the kids?” Her smile dropped, but she still seemed nonplussed.

“I think I blew them up. I don’t know. My head hurts, and Cooper shocked me, and-and-I-I don’t even know what day it is, and my head’s pounding… baby. Please. Tell me I ain’t goin’ crazy.”

“Aw. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s-“

“Ssshhhhh.” She touched his lips for emphasis. “Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! Can’t you smell the smoke-“

“We were going to renovate the house, anyway. Let it burn, Clint.”

His stomach flipped, and cold sweat broke out over his skin. “What?!”

She backed away from him and twisted around to remove a long thumb drive from the tower.

“What’s that?”

“Just me, cleaning up your mess. But that’s nothing new, huh?”

Her smile was sad and cold. Her brown eyes were flat, and Clint wondered when he’d fallen down this rabbit hole. His wife stood up and kissed his cheek.

Then, she reached into the pocket of her jeans and jabbed him with a small button, just below his pulse. Clint jerked back, staring at her in betrayal.

“What’d you do t’me?!”

“You wanted something to help you sleep, right?”

“N-n-not now..."

"Now's as good a time as any, Clint."

His mind reeled. Panic warred with confusion. She wore his wife’s face, with those fine laugh lines around her eyes and lips. She still smelled like Curve, the bargain brand at Target, and she still had that scar on her wrist from the time that she tried to make fried tacos and Cooper distracted her, making her drop one into the hot grease and curse up a storm.

Clint never stared into her eyes and saw a stranger staring back at him. Not even on their worst day.

“Laura…”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Her tone held regret. And blame. “I don’t know what you did, baby, but you brought this on yourself.”

“ _Laura!_ ” She grabbed the thumb drive from the tower and jammed it into her pocket. She stepped over him, a final insult before she dashed down the hall, toward the laundry room. “Fuck…”

“BARTON!”

_Oh, thank God and all his little, chubby angels._

“NAT?!”

She limped into the office - limped, Natasha Romanoff _limped_ \- and Clint noticed that she looked just as haggard as he felt. She was shaking something off, and whatever it was did a number on her.

“She poisoned me. Get up. Get up, Clint.”

“She hit me with-”

“Get UP! Let’s go!” She jerked him to his feet and got her shoulder up under him, and he found himself running with her, wondering why his feet felt like someone else’s. So much dust and smoke. Clint smelled fried circuits and charring wood. Flashes of memory pushed their way to the surface. Laura’s voice nagging him to take his work boots off before he walked across her freshly mopped floor. Cooper’s first steps. Nate smiling at him for the first time, right before he spit up on his father’s shirt.

Nat was dragging him out of his house. _Dragging_ him. Past the rustic, simple furnishings and handmade curtains and the wedding ring quilt stretched across the frame in front of the entertainment center. Stupidly, he felt the frantic urge to scoop up the framed family portrait on the settee, and he sobbed a rough sound of betrayal as Nat pulled him away. “I need that,” he argued as they dashed past his belongings. Heirlooms. Memories.

Lies.

Such cruel _lies_.

And it all disappeared in seconds.

BOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!

The blast threw them forward. Burning chunks of wood and plaster rained down on them, bringing hell to visit and choking their lungs with smoke. Nat coughed mere inches from him, nearly on top of him, because damn her, she tried to cover him. He turned, rolling painfully to face the carnage. Smoke rose from the farm house in dark billows, an offering to the gods that were laughing at Clint.

Outside. Fresh air and darkness. The same stars he watched every night winked down at them. _Did they know?_ Clint stumbled over Lila’s old tricycle. He still had to take the training wheels off the Barbie bike lying in the driveway and get her a bigger helme- Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Nat dragged him into the barn. She jerked him to his feet again; this was nothing new. “Why are we in here? The truck… we can take the truck-” 

“JARVIS,” Nat barked, “are there any explosives on the pickup or my bike?”

“I detect two on the Ducati. I will need ten minutes to run a full diagnostic on them, Natasha.”

The doorway to the barn shimmered and sparked at Clint. He coughed up dust and shrapnel from the blast that just missed turning his ass into Swiss cheese.

“JARVIS?” Clint croaked.

Nat showed him her Stark watch as she pulled him up the ladder into the hayloft. “Can you send Vision back?”

“ETA is about twelve minutes.”

“Well, what good does that do?” Clint scrubbed his face. Nat’s eyes were bloodshot and her hair was wrecked. 

“She’s not going to leave quietly, Clint.”

“She’s… we can’t-”

“She’s not who we thought.”

“You don’t know-”

“She’s HYDRA, Barton.”

He shook his head roughly, like a dog fresh from an unwanted bath.

“She had the insignia.”

“No! NO!” His voice shook, and Clint’s eyes burned. He grabbed Nat’s arm too hard for a rebuke between friends. She shook it off and took his face firmly between her palms. He fought her, refusing to look her in the eye, because he knew he would find the violent end to all he knew in their green depths. No one knew him like Nat. How many times had they stood on the edge of the abyss, just for the view?

“Barton. Look at me.”

“No…” His breathing sounded choppy. “Don’t-”

“She’s HYDRA. That wasn’t the woman you knew. Those weren’t your children. Do you hear me, Clint?”

“No! No, nonono, noooo…” He tried to jerk himself from her grip, but she held on, tangling her fingers in his hair to reinforce her grip, letting the smarting against his scalp ground him for a moment. 

“She’s going to come after you. And you’re compromised right now.”

“Don’t.”

Her heart broke for him, and for everything that fate just tore out of his grasp.

 

Laura’s - if that was even her real fucking name - voice floated to him from out in the yard. “Sweetheart. I’ve got something for your headache. Might work better than the Advil.”

Nat hushed him and shoved him down into the haystacks. Clint’s heart pounded and he tasted blood in his mouth from where he bit his tongue. Nat had a hard grip on him again, as though she didn’t trust him not to crack. She glanced at him, and he couldn’t stop the hot tear that tracked down his dirty cheek. Her expression softened for just a moment, but she gave him no quarter. She couldn’t spare him from what had to happen next.

What _she_ had to do next.

“Natasha.”

It was JARVIS. Or Vision, at the moment. The android’s voice sounded differently modulated, more confident than the original AI core. He was whispering, telling her that he understood the situation in its entirety.

“Mr. Stark contacted me from the lab.”

“And?”

“He said he left Mr. Barton a housewarming gift in the barn?”

“Come again?”

“Specifically, he made an upgrade to Mr. Barton’s John Deere.”

And maybe that explained why the doorway was shimmering, now that Clint thought about it.

“Please, don’t set anything else on fire,” he pleaded with Nat.

“Did you have fire insurance on your policy?”

Clint choked in disbelief, but Nat heard Laura outside, closer this time.

“I hate to do this, honey. We had a good run. We really did. I mean, this was great. Nice little spread. Cute little house. White picket fence.” Laura’s voice was bold and crisp, no hint of adrenaline or fatigue. “SHIELD set us up pretty well. I’ve gotta hand it to ‘em, it didn’t even feel like I was living in confinement. You get that, right? That this is what this was?”

“The fuck?!” he hissed.

Nat shook her head, hushing him again, but her eyes…

...they flitted away. So telling. 

“Kinda funny when they call a guy’s wife ‘the old ball and chain,’” she taunted. “Guess they didn’t mean it _literally_.” Nat heard her chambering a round from just outside the entrance.

“ _Nat_.”

That was Stark’s voice, coming from the watch.

“Tony?”

“ _The passcode is ‘Dad Jeans Alpha-One._ ”

“What?!”

“ _For the tractor. Trust me._ ”

“Tony-”

“ _I might have told a little white lie when I promised I wouldn’t mess with Barton’s tractor. Sorry-not-sorry. Dad Jeans Alpha-One. Go. Don’t be shy. She’s carrying a 0.38._ ”

“We’re going to talk about this, Stark. Over rum. Lots of rum, damn it.”

“ _I’ll save you a chair by the fireplace, Barton. Give the tractor the passcode, now!_ ” Tony’s voice was sharp.

Nat told Clint, “Stay here.” She levered herself over the edge of the loft and leapt to the ground, heedless of the impact or her high-heeled boots. “Hope you left an instruction manual for this thing, Tony,” she muttered.

She approached the tractor in the dark, and there was Laura, hovering just outside the doorway.

“Hey there, godmother of my precious offspring,” she cooed. “Got anymore of your fancy Widow tricks? You can show them to me. I won’t tell anybody.”

“Sure you won’t.” Natasha kept herself a moving target, and Laura didn’t disappoint her. She raised the gun and fired, and the doorway flashed and crackled with electricity as it _absorbed the bullet_. Laura stared in disbelief, but she recovered and automatically fired another couple of rounds. Natasha ducked despite the fact that she missed, and she scrambled up onto the seat of the tractor.

“Dad Jeans, Alpha-One,” she cried out, slapping the console of the tractor. 

It hummed to life beneath her, and she felt a strange thrill in her stomach. Oh, Stark had such a way with his toys. A holographic display shot out from a small port that he’d installed on their last trip, and it showed Laura’s body from every angle, pinpointing all of the weapons and tech she packed. More poison darts. More rounds of ammunition. A cyanide tablet inside her locket. A small earwig, letting Nat know that whoever she’d reported to for who knew how long was listening now.

Might as well give them a show.

“Hey, good looking. Buy you a drink?” The tractor spoke to her in Stark’s voice.

“After we take out the HYDRA agent outside the barn.”

“I can tell you’re not a cheap date. I can work with that.”

The key in the ignition turned itself, and a broad array of images flashed across the barn floor, bright lights flickering over the spilled hay and dirt. 

“Might want to step down,” John Deere suggested.

“I’m fine with that.”

The tractor pitched forward as soon as she jumped off, revving as it rolled toward the barn doors.

Clint heard Laura’s “Oh, SHIT!” as the tractor charged through the doors, splintering more wood and scaring the crap out of his chickens. Clint peered through the crack between the slats from the loft. The tractor stopped, still revving, and he saw a small scope rise up out of the console.

“Please don’t be a repulsor,” he grated out.

The tractor fired at his wife.

Laura moved with more agility than he could have ever imagined she possessed, dodging the blast. She recovered, shooting at the tractor, then ducked and rolled when the repulsor fired again.

“She’s good,” Nat murmured. “Okay. Okay…”

 

Okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might end up closer to eight chapters once it is finished. Still floundering a little with the plot, but I'm having fun.


	4. I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick Fury rendezvous at the Barton farm again and lays down some ugly truth. And Natasha learns the full extent to which SHIELD compartmentalizes their information. 
> 
> Even from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Trying to get past the cliffhangers. I got excited and wanted to post the last chapter, even though it was short. Bear with me.
> 
> I promised more appearances by the other Avengers. I intend to deliver.

Nat expected certain things to happen with consistent regularity when she visited Clint and Laura at home. 

Getting her hands dirty, whether it was with chicken feed, fingerpainting, or sawdust. The occasional flea bite. Being asked to milk a cow or three. Amazing fried eggs every morning. Baked goods made out of real butter.

Natasha never expected to actually use her widow’s stingers, despite packing them anyway.

Or for Laura to have a decent left-handed punch.

Natasha spent ten years as a spy. You gained confidences. You made strong first impressions but still had to be relatively forgettable. You never told _anyone_ the whole story.

You got used to the fact that reunions with the people you spent time in the field with weren’t guaranteed to be happy. Laura’s moves were familiar to Natasha as a lullaby. Graceful. Efficient.

“When did you have time to spar when you were raising munchkins?”

“Maybe I just popped in a DVD,” Laura grunted as she evaded Nat’s elbow.

“Sure, you did,” Nat huffed as she blocked Laura’s kick aimed at her ribs.

“I know Clint invited you. You overstayed your welcome.”

Natasha pushed herself to remember who this woman was - who she was _supposed to be_ \- to Clint. Natasha needed answers. SHIELD needed answers.

And Clint needed her to use non-lethal force. Thankfully, Laura had dropped the gun when “John Deere” returned her hospitality with that repulsor cannon. If there was ever a time when Natasha decided not to mind Tony’s “Don’t argue with my good intentions, even when they go a little sideways” attitude, right about now, this was it. Nat just had to keep her away from it before she could squeeze off her last shot, reload, and go after Clint again. For a brief moment, she caught his hollow, red-rimmed eyes through the window in the loft.

Laura made use of that distraction and successfully kicked her in the sternum. Nat’s rough cry broke loose as the air was punched from her lungs. As Nat went down, she swept Laura’s ankle neatly, taking her down like a sack of potatoes. Both women dodged a repulsor blast as “John” took out the gun this time, blasting it to bits when Laura attempted to retrieve it. Natasha went after her, and they grappled, abandoning any attempt at conversation. 

Clint staggered down the ladder from the loft, against Nat’s order, and he wandered out of the barn.

“Stand back,” his tractor warned him in Tony’s voice.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Hey, I’d listen to Romanoff on this one.”

“I’ve never been good at doing what I’m told. Except where my wife was concerned. And yeah, y’know. Look how well that’s turning out…”

“I feel you, buddy.”

Laura’s movements were economic and smooth. She deflected Nat’s punches like an MMA featherweight, and like Nat, she used her legs offensively. All kicks and sweeps. Nat roared in pain when she caught Laura’s backhand across the temple, and Nat plowed her shoulder into Laura’s chest in response.

“I don’t even know who to root for,” Clint groaned. “FUCK.”

“The one who isn’t HYDRA,” Stark/Tractor suggested. “Just a thought. Hey, I can cut this short if you want?”

“Meaning?”

“You know what I mean, Barton.”

Clint felt nausea and bile rise in his throat. “No.”

“Have it your way.”

And Clint ran for them, letting his legs think for him. Years in the field taught him to run to Nat by rote, his first instinct, every time. They covered each other’s backs. Kept each other accountable, and _intact_.

“I’ve got this, Clint!” Nat hissed.

“No, you don’t! You don’t, this time!” Clint forced himself between them both and blocked Nat’s punch.

“You’ll go too easy on her, Barton! Let me take care of this!”

“Who do you think you’re going to take care of?” Laura demanded, shaking her head. Her lip was already beginning to swell. Clint wouldn’t give Laura his back, and he blocked Nat’s attempt to take her down again. His eyes pleaded with her, blue drilling into green.

“ _Don’t._ Just don’t.”

“It’s okay, baby,” Laura insisted, face softening as she reached for him. “I know what’s best for you.” She reached out and touched his face, and he faltered for a moment.

Just a moment.

“I know you do, sweetheart.”

Natasha lunged forward while she was focused on Clint and jammed her stinger into the back of Laura’s neck, delivering a teeth-clenching current through her body. Her face looked dazed as her knees buckled. She fell to the ground in an ungraceful sprawl.

“You know how many times someone’s told me that where it hasn’t worked out?” Clint asked.

“Are you asking for an actual number?” Nat bent down and began to check her body for more hidden weapons and bugs. 

“I wasn’t. I wasn’t talking to you.”

*

 

By the time Vision returned to the farm with orders from Fury that Clint would need to return to the old SHIELD headquarters for a debriefing and medical exam, Natasha was inside the barn, nursing her injuries. Laura lay on the ground beside her, still unconscious and locked in a stasis field. “John Deere” explained to her that it was part of his containment protocol and assured Nat that Laura could still breathe inside it.

Clint was on the barn roof, just digesting it all. He watched his house burn, billowing with smoke and orange flames that kissed the night sky. Every photograph. Cooper’s trophies from soccer. His favorite hunting bows. The wedding ring quilt. Laura’s recipe box.

Was that even her name?

“Shall I collect Clint from the roof?” Vision asked. His expression was bland but not unkind.

“Not yet,” Nat suggested. “He just… he needs some time to himself, right about now.”

“Director Fury wants him in his ready room at the soonest possible-”

“I know that. And I know Clint. This is killing him right now. I know you’re programmed to do what you’re told, but I’m going to have to remind you to stay in your lane.”

He had the grace to look affronted, and he made a sound not unlike clearing his throat.

“I’m programmed to assess the situation at hand and form the most efficient and useful response. ‘Doing what I’m told’ understates my capabilities considerably. And forgive my temerity, Miss Romanoff, but I realize you’re experiencing some strong emotions right now. Emotions that might make you sound a bit more… abrasive… than you intended.”

She gave him a daunting look.

“To quote Mr. Stark, ‘Don’t take it out on me, Sunshine.’”

Natasha rolled her eyes and grumbled in Russian, knowing full well he could translate it.

*

 

Maria Hill showed up in the Quinjet, Stark’s newest prototype since its predecessor disappeared with Bruce. Her manner was crisp, and she wore black flak gear when she got out to greet them and assess their surroundings.

“Oh, wow. I bet there’s some story behind this.”

“This isn’t a good time, Hill,” Nat told her.

“Hey. I get that. It’s just… this was a nice place.” Her face fell into sad lines. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Natasha had never felt that sentiment more keenly. Maria hugged herself as she watched the flames consume the frame of the house. They listened to the windows shattering as the front of the house began to collapse. Maria followed Nat into the barn, where she applied high security shackles to Laura’s wrists before she could stir fully awake. Maria spoke to “John” as she loaded Laura onto his seat to save herself the trouble of carrying Laura onto the jet herself.

“I need a backup feed of everything that happened before I came here.”

“Already sent it to Big Daddy-O,” the machine assured her.

“Stark?”

“And Fury,” it said.

“Can I get it on a flash drive?”

“The lady’s wish is my command.” The tractor ejected a small thumb drive from its control panel, making the tiny light in the end flicker up at her. Maria removed it and tucked it into her pocket, giving the tractor a brief pat.

“Good boy.”

“Awwwww, shucks.”

Maria went to the ladder leading up into the loft.

“He needs more time,” Natasha told her.

“He does? Or you do?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Natasha gave Maria a flinty look. “He does.”

“It’s nice to want things. But it’s not safe for him to stay here anymore. You’re just putting off the inevitable and compromising yourselves if you drag your feet. You of all people should know that sometimes, you just have to rip the band-aid off, Romanoff.”

“Hill.” Natasha’s fist clenched hard enough to make her nails dig into her palm, helping her ground herself. “He just lost everything he thought he had.”

“Yeah? Well, he can stand in line.” Maria backed down from the ladder rung and closed the gap between them, gently gripping Natasha’s arm. “Look. I hate this, too. I don’t want this for him. No one with a heart would ever want _this_ for him. I know you want to protect him, Romanoff, and so do I. We do what we do so that _this_ ,” and she motioned toward the burning house, “doesn’t happen. This is why I deleted my Match profile when I joined SHIELD.”

Nat huffed a laugh and pulled back from her grasp. “Don’t patronize me right now.”

“I’m not.”

“Look. I’ve been through so much with this man. He’s my _best friend_. Don’t stand here and tell me that we’re just going to do this by the book and put on a stoic mask.” Nat lowered her voice. “That’s a human being. Don’t treat him like collateral damage.”

“Sometimes, we all are. Go wait in the jet.”

Natasha wavered for a moment, before her eyes swung away from Maria and she stalked out of the barn.

“You’re too close to all of this right now,” Maria called after her.

She didn’t respond when Nat flipped her the bird, back still turned. Maria climbed up the ladder and then eased herself out through the loft’s window, onto the barn roof. Clint sat in the shadows, hunched over and hugging his knees. Maria saw that he was shivering. He watched the house burn, and he flinched when she bent and touched his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“What’re _apologizing_ for? You didn’t just try to blow me to kingdom come, Hill.”

“No.” She exhaled a resigned breath. “I have to take you back to SHIELD.”

“I already told Fury that I’m out.”

“This isn’t about pulling you back in. This is about keeping you safe. That’s my job.”

“Yeah? You’re kinda sleeping on it, if I’m being honest.” He wouldn’t look at her. His voice sounded rusty as a bathroom door hinge, and she saw him lift his hand to wipe his eyes.

“Barton-“

“Don’t call me that. Call me Hawkeye. That’s all I am to you. Right?”

“Wrong, Clint.”

“Don’t lie!”

“I’m not.” Her voice was soft. “I wouldn’t, about this.”

“But you have, right? Right?”

She’d been kneeling beside him, but she stood in lieu of answering his question, and Maria remained silent for another minute.

“It’s not safe to stay. You know that. Fury wants me to run a scan tomorrow, with his team. Nat mentioned a flash drive that Laura had-“

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved her off. “Fury’s team. _Now_ , he has a team. Now he’s not running around pretending he’s not a part of this anymore, like his hands aren’t dirty.” Clint stood up on shaky legs, but Maria didn’t insult him by reaching out to steady him. “His hands are dirty. Understand that, Hill?” he nodded at the burning wreckage. “This is what happens when you play games and keep dirty little secrets.”

“Vision told me about the clot he removed from your brain.”

Clint shrugged. He wouldn’t look at her.

“Dr. Cho is studying it. She wants to examine you again.”

“Is she gonna replace any of my parts with more plastic?”

“Didn’t sound like that was what she had planned. She’s more worried about the headaches, and what they might imply.”

“I’m falling apart. You don’t need to study me to figure that out.”

“I’m still going to need you to get into the jet.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“You don’t have to want to, but I’m taking you with me.”

Clint stiffened, then swore. “Fine.” He jerked away from her and leapt off the barn roof, heedless of her cry of caution or a painful landing from that height. Maria climbed back in through the window, and minutes later, all three of them were aloft, buckled in and silent.

*

 

Natasha glared at Maria when she saw them approach Stark Tower and watched the landing bay open up and the runway ramp extend to allow them entry. “You said we were going back to SHIELD.”

“Tomorrow. Fury wants to meet at oh-nine hundred hours for a debriefing.”

Cliff laughed dispassionately. “Will there be coffee? Danishes? If so, I’m there,” he told them, as though there were any other options.

“I’ll bring coffee,” Maria promised. “As much as you want.”

“Oh, aren’t you the little angel.”

“I try.”

Clint unbuckled his safety harness, flinging it off and stomping past Nat. He cut both of them a wide berth, ignoring Nat’s look of concern. Nat felt his rage and frustration radiating from him, and she hated how it felt to be rebuffed.

“I hate this,” she murmured to Maria.

“Yeah, well. I do, too.”

“Tell me Stark has vodka right now.”

Maria snorted. “He’d be insulted to hear you say that.”

*

_Stark Tower, lobby:_

“JARVIS?”

“Good evening, Director Fury. JARVIS is no longer the resident security program protocol. My name is FRIDAY, and I will be glad to assist you.”

“New woman of the house, huh?” The corners of his mouth quirked up in what approximated a smile, for him, at the AI’s dulcet tones.

“You could say that, sir.”

“Nice to meet you, FRIDAY. FRIDAY, can you tell me where I can find Clint Barton?”

“He’s currently in the gymnasium, Mr. Fury. Basement sublevel three.”

Nick took his finger off the intercom button, and the security guard nodded and led him to the elevator, allowing him inside without an escort. His sigh echoed off the steel doors. 

It was days like these that made him wonder why he never took his mother’s advice and simply gotten himself a job at the post office. Good benefits. Nice, normal hours. Only moderately heavy lifting, and he didn’t have to get his hands dirty.

Now, he had to talk Barton back from the ledge and figure out how so many months of programming went completely sideways.

The elevator opened to an empty, dark corridor, and Nick heard someone out on the shooting range Stark built in the gym, turning a target into Swiss cheese. Nick schooled his expression before he strolled inside. 

Barton gave the target hell. He fired arrows from different angles, one after the other, barely pausing as he nocked each one on the string. His sinewy arms and deft hands executed each shot by rote. Shooting was no longer a talent; it was an _instinct_ for Clint Barton. His eyes were hard and red-rimmed. Deep lines of rage etched themselves in his brow and the brackets around his mouth. Clint’s breathing was harsh and uneven, and Nick picked the wrong time to pay him a visit.

“Good evening, Hawkeye.”

“Evening, asshole.”

Nick’s expectations for their discussion downgraded themselves from “tense” to “shitshow” in that instant. “Stark told me that Agent Hill extracted you from your home, and she informed me that you avoided injury.”

“Yeah? Well, she lied. Watching your kids explode and having your wife try to kill you all in the same night counts as ‘injury.’ Maybe just not the kind you’re thinkin’ about, though, huh?” His words were staccato and sharp, featherless arrows that still found their target. “I’m so sick of this shit, Fury. What the _fuck._.”

He continued to shoot, until the gymnasium sounded an alarm, and a red light on the wall flashed at him to signal to him to stop. The target descended into the floor, and within seconds, a fresh one arose in its place. Clint had been at it for a while. Sweat gleamed on his skin, and his hair looked disheveled and damp. 

“Dr. Cho had the chance to examine the blood clot that Vision removed from your brain. She’s planning to explain her findings with you when she performs her examination.”

“She can examine my ass walkin’ out that door. I’m cashing in on my retirement a little early, Fury. D’you hear me? I’ve had enough. When I signed back on with SHIELD, you promised me my family would be secure. No exceptions. That we’d be off the grid, and that I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone in the network showing up unannounced, or threatening their safety… and now, I come to find out it was all a lie. That I was part of someone’s little puppet show. Or, no… wait, wait. The fuckin’ _Truman Show_. Were you filming me? You had to have been. Huh?” Clint grabbed two arrows, nocking both on the string in tandem and taking the shot, unconcerned with their trajectory or whether they would hit the target. The string slapped his forearm, raising an angry, vicious welt on his unprotected flesh. Nick noticed the arm guard lying on the floor and didn’t remark on it. “What happened to my family, Fury?!”

“It’s complex. I’d appreciate it if we could discuss it calmly-”

“You’d. You’d _appreciate_. Did you just tell me you’d _appreciate it_ if we could talk about this calmly? About the fact that the woman who I thought was my wife and the mother of my three kids is a HYDRA agent?” Clint jerked his head around and his features spasmed, making the muscle in his jaw tick. Clint flung the arrow he’d been about to shoot at Fury’s feet, missing them by mere inches. Nick didn’t flinch.

 

“There are things you need to know.”

“Holy understatements, Batman!” Clint scrubbed his palm over his face and gave Nick his back. He laughed silently and began to pace, bow still clenched in his grip.

“It wasn’t a blood clot, Hawkeye.”

“We’re back to Hawkeye. Okay, then. Not a clot. What was it, then?”

“It was a nannite.”

“A what, now?”

“A microscopic stealth drone implanted in your cerebral cortex. It broke loose from your brain tissue as the result of blunt head trauma.”

“Blunt trauma.”

“Probably from an injury in the field.”

“You mean, like when Nat cleaned my clock when we were on the helicarrier.” Clint huffed and faced him, craning his neck around, but his posture was still hunched. The hand that wasn’t holding the bow shook.

“That’s a possible explanation.”

 

_Cognitive recalibration. I hit you in the head._

 

“So. So, you’re telling me that I had this thing. This nanobot or whatever. It was stuck in my head, and Natasha knocked it loose?”

Fury nodded.

“Romanoff already submitted her incident report. I plan to meet for a debriefing with her tomorrow.”

“A debriefing, huh? The two of you in your little secret club? I thought I was a member, too, but I guess I’m not special enough!”

“Hawkeye-”

“I’M NOT HAWKEYE! I’m not your goddamn yes man! D’you hear me?!” 

Clint whirled around and ran at the target, roaring at it as he lashed it with the bow, arm flying as he dashed the weapon into splinters. His breath broke from his chest in heaving, gulping sobs, and he kicked the target, beating it with bare fists, heedless of the arrows jutting out from its surface.

Only when Nick caught his arm and held it back did he notice the flecks of blood that spattered his shirt or the hot, streaky trickles running down his wrist and forearm. Clint’s body stiffened. 

“Don’t! Don’t, don’t! LET ME GO, you sonofabitch!”

“Don’t do this to yourself.”

“S’no fuckin’ worse than what _you did to me_!”

“When this started, we were protecting you! SHIELD was compromised!”

“She’s HYDRA!”

“She was also SHIELD, Barton!”

They struggled, and Clint spun around and jerked himself free, backing away from Nick, pupils dilated.

“What?” he croaked.

“She was SHIELD personnel. She was doing her job. But then, SHIELD was compromised. We’re still investigating her background and her connections.”

“But… you just said… she was doing her job. What was her _job_?”

“Giving you a clean slate. You needed the distraction. It was the least we could do.”

“The least you could do.” Clint’s voice and eyes were so hollow. So lost.

“The least we could do to try to make it up to you for giving you the assignment that ruined your life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to keep this going before writer's block kicks in, even though I have NO CLUE where the rest of this is going.


	5. Luuucyyyyyy, I T’ink You Got Some ‘Splainin’ To Doooooooo…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha doesn’t have all the answers. Come to think of it, in SHIELD, _no one_ has all the answers.
> 
> And an old, familiar face resurfaces in the wake of the data dump from Project: Insight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to kangofu-cb for helping me stay somewhat on task with her awesome comments.

“Are you warm enough, Clint?”

“Yeah. No thanks to these gowns, though… I mean, was it a conscious choice when they designed these things to just leave ‘em ass out? Just let everybody walk around, flapping in the breeze?”

“Just helps us have access to everything we need to see.” Dr. Cho’s lips twitched as she tucked Clint’s thin warmer blanket more snugly around his shoulders. “That new tissue regenerated itself nicely since the last time I saw you.”

“So. What now? You’re not gonna replace anything else that I should know about, now?”

“No. Not at all. I just want to take a look at what’s going on in your gray matter since we evacuated that foreign body.”

“Yeah. About that. That was kinda creepy. Like, ‘I’m gonna have nightmares about this til I go senile’ creepy. I don’t… I hate having anyone poking around in my head. No offense.”

Helen laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I can understand that. And I can relate.”

Clint gave her a double take, and then he frowned with the realization that she could. “Ultron?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Right. That’s right. Uh. Hey. That stuff that happened? It wasn’t your fault. Okay?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Clint. Go ahead and lie still, and I’ll run the scan.”

“Shutting up, now.” Clint relaxed and settled himself on the table and let Helen run a wand over his temples and forehead, slowly sliding it back over his scalp. It felt cold and made him tingle slightly as she stimulated his neurons.

“Hmmmmm.”

“What are we ‘hmmmmm-ing’ about?”

“Interesting.” She adjusted some of her screens and threw a holographic display into the air, employing one of Tony’s favorite tricks. “So. This is where Vision extracted the nannite from. It was small, and he was probably one of the only people who could detect it without having to insert a probe. I’m intrigued about his other capabilities-”

“Okay. Enough of the intrigue about the fancy red robot. Let’s get back to me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble, Clint. But, he found it because your brain is like a computer. Vision was able to tap into yours through that Mind Stone. He sensed the nannite as a harmful subroutine running in the background of your brain. So, he treated it like a virus.”

“How did I not know it was in there? I mean, better question: How the heck did it even get in there?”

“We’re analyzing it. I’m checking with some of my colleagues in the field of nanotechnology to see if they’re familiar with this, and if they can find the source of the parts. It’s sophisticated, not just hard to detect. Your brain got used to it, but again, Natasha unwittingly did you a favor.”

Clint grunted at the sound of his best friend’s name. “Sure, she did.”

*

 

“Natasha.” Nick showed her to the seat across from him at the conference table. Maria handed her a cup of coffee and slid a folder toward her. Nat opened it and took out the reports. A black and white candid photo of Laura was paper-clipped to the sheaf of reports. The heading across the report read “SHIELD PERSONNEL FILE, BARTON, LAURA.”

“A personnel file,” Nat said dully. “Okay.”

“She was a SHIELD agent.”

“And an agent of HYDRA,” Nat reminded him. “Well. That’s interesting.”

The file listed her as “Widowed.”

“Care to explain this, Fury?”

“She was when she came to work for SHIELD. A single mother of three.”

“Wait... “

“The children are real. They just aren’t Barton’s.”

“So, that was a lie.”

“A lie, with some elements of truth.” Maria sipped her own cup of coffee. “Birth records were conveniently blurred. Since Laura really went through childbirth herself, it was easy enough to play along with Clint’s perception of his family and his marriage. She set the dynamic. Clint provided the playground.”

“It’s called a stable home,” Nat corrected her, irritated.

“As stable as you can get in this line of business.” Maria sounded nonplussed. “And we provided that for him.”

“The question is why.”

“You know why.”

Natasha turned to Fury with a disbelieving look.

“Budapest,” Nick told her. “That made us reassess how we deal with how our operatives process trauma when they come back from the field. It’s collateral damage. We sign up for it. That doesn’t mean we ignore it.”

“Budapest.”

The name felt bitter and wrong in her mouth. The normally pristine pool of her mind rippled when she spoke it aloud.

Fury handed her a second file. “A little light reading. I recommend getting yourself in the right mindset before you dive into that. Preferably behind closed doors.”

“Back to Laura. She was Clint’s wife, right? That much was real?”

“It was on paper. Real enough for the agency’s purpose.”

“What was the agency’s _purpose_? Fury,” Nat exclaimed, aghast. “What were you trying to accomplish?”

“Protecting Barton. Giving him a safe place.”

Nat sat disbelieving. Her crossed arms and the tightness around her mouth spoke volumes.  
“Is there even such a thing in our line of work, considering what we do?”

Nick looked contrite. He had that much decency.

“You promised Clint you would keep his family private and off the grid,” Natasha accused. “But the promise was a lie. A sham.”

“It was the only way we could think of to help him. We had to replace what he lost.”

“Replace?”

“Yes.”

Maria sighed, finally deciding to jump in. “You were the one who found him after he lost her, Nat.”

“What?”

Nat felt pressure in her ears, and the room seemed to go gray around the edges.

“You found Clint and extracted him after his wife was killed.”

“Extracted… him?”

“From our rendezvous point in Budapest. You were the one who brought him in. He was compromised. And in the aftermath, Natasha, so were you,” Nick explained.

Natasha shook her head numbly, mouth dropping open. “No. That’s… that’s not how it happened. You’re wrong, you’re wrong about-”

“Barbara Morse,” Maria pronounced.

The thin thread of Natasha’s self-cohesion snapped.

Maria rushed around to the other side of the table when Natasha crumpled to the floor.

“That didn’t go well, Fury.”

“It could’ve gone so much worse,” he countered dryly. “Easy. Take it easy. Don’t jostle her so much.”

 

*

“Wilson?” Steve turned away from the TV in the lounge as it showed the evening news footage. Sam grimaced as he glanced over Steve’s shoulder, watching the flames consume Clint’s farm house. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

“This is why we’re both still bachelors,” Sam corrected him. 

Steve grunted in agreement and sank back into the couch cushions. “How’s Barton doing?”

“Dr. Cho said the results of her scan will be back in about an hour or two.”

“So. Nannites,” Steve murmured. “Anything else that I missed?”

“No. You’ve been brought as far up to speed as I have.”

“Which means that we both probably missed something.”

Sam’s lips twisted and he shook his head. “C’mon, man. Stop that. You’re supposed to be the optimist.”

“Don’t let my old movies fool you.” Steve gave Sam a lopsided smile.

Sam adopted Steve’s broad, bold stance and planted his hands on his hips. “Hey, kids, who wants to help me sock ol’ Adolph on the jaw? I need a volunteer!”

“Dear Lord…”

“Buy Double E savings bonds and put a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun…”

“God, Wilson, _please_ stop.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve watched your whole filmography. _Twice_. It’s a gold mine, Steve.”

Steve was beet red by then. His whole face fit comfortably behind his palm. Sam snickered and poked him.

They both sobered as they watched the rest of the news report.

“A domestic incident,” Sam said. “That’s putting it lightly.”

“Is Pepper handling this?”

“She’s putting her spin on it. Press conference tomorrow at three.”

“Bless her.”

Explaining the team’s failures and fuck-ups was a full-time occupation, one that neither Sam nor Steve envied.

Hill strode up to them garbed in her dress blues and flak gear. “Gentlemen. I have a situation that needs your attention.”

“What’s up?” Steve craned his neck around at the sound of her voice, but he stood when he noticed her expression, and his brows furrowed.

“It’s Romanoff. She’s in a bad way. She could use your support.”

“What happened?”

She sighed and folded her arms. “I overshared. Fury and I both did. But it was long overdue. And right now, she really needs someone who cares about her to get her through this.”

“Where is she?”

“The infirmary. We gave her a little something to calm her down.”

Sam and Steve strode off before she’d even finished her sentence. 

“Be gentle!” she called after them. “I have a meeting. I’ll be in touch.”

Neither man wanted to know what kind of “meeting” required her to pack a sidearm.

Not while Nat needed them.

 

They rushed downstairs in the staff elevator. Steve preceded Sam into the infirmary, where they found Helen making adjustments to a monitor screen outside of the patient room.

“She’s resting. She’s a little overwhelmed,” she explained.

“What happened?”

“She collapsed. We were afraid she had gone catatonic, but she rallied. It’s part of her enhancement.”

“Enhancement?”

“While Natasha trained with the KGB, she received metabolic enhancements, not much different from your serum, Captain Rogers. Modified, and not as concentrated, but she has greater tissue density than a woman her age, and her cells replace themselves more quickly, too. She’s a remarkable physical specimen.”

“Woman,” Steve corrected her. “She’s a remarkable woman, Doctor.”

“I apologize.” She nodded them forward. “It’s all right to go in.”

 

Except that it wasn’t.

Steve and Sam felt her anguish from the doorway. Natasha was rolled onto her side, facing the wall. She was bundled up under two blankets, but she was still shivering and rocking. Sam heard her low sniffles and nodded to Steve. “FRIDAY, lower the lights?”

“Of course, sir. We’ll make it cozier in here,” the AI promised him.

Sam approached the bed and reached down to stroke Natasha’s hair back from her cheek. They were wet and flushed. His touch triggered low, hiccupping sobs.

“What happened?” Steve asked.

“What can we do for you?” Sam offered. “We’re here. Tell us how we can help.”

“Take this thing out of my head. Take it away. I don’t want it. I don’t… I didn’t want this for him…”

“For who? Didn’t want what?”

“For Clint. He lost so much. I had to get him out…”

She told them the bits and snatches of what she remembered as it came back to her.

“You didn’t know her. You didn’t know Bobbi.”

“Bobbi?”

“Uh-huh.” Steve handed her a tissue, and she mopped at her face with it, hugging the pillow to her chest. She was completely unraveled. The sight was as foreign to them as it was frightening. 

Nothing rattled Natasha Romanoff.

“God, she was perfect for him. She came to SHIELD straight out of grad school. PhD in microbiology. Right up there with Banner and Cho. We used to spar when we had downtime. He fell for her from the moment she opened her mouth.”

Sam continued to stroke her hair. The bed sagged beneath her hip as Steve sat on its edge, giving her a friendly nudge. Their presence grounded her, and the words and tears continued to flow.

“I pushed it down. I don’t know… I don’t know why this came back now. I haven’t even read the reports yet.”

“The reports?”

“Hill gave me the file. Everything that happened during that op in Budapest is in it. But I don’t want it back.”

“It’s a lot to process,” Sam told her.

“It’s too much.”

“Barton’s having a hard time too, Agent Romanoff,” Helen told her as she hovered in the doorway. “I can write you a prescription for something to take the edge of this off, but with your faster metabolism, it wouldn’t last that long.”

“I don’t want pills.”

“How about vodka?” Steve joked.

“I just feel so _lost_.”

“The worst thing about the assignments when you have to leave someone behind is regretting that you came back. And I won’t let you do that, Nat.” Sam’s voice was soft but firm. 

She kept sobbing. Steve’s grip around her shoulder was warm and solid. Sam kept stroking her hair. She didn’t feel like she deserved any of it.

“Everything went sideways. Our contact gave up our location. Clint and Bobbi and I were struck inside and had to fight our way out.”

“Best laid plans,” Steve mused.

“Yeah. We were made. They came at us with everything. Bobbi was already wearing hazard gear, but I had to throw Clint and myself out of a two-story window. We ended up on the loading dock. We both had broken glass in more inconvenient places than you wanna think about. We just missed getting hit by nerve gas grenades.”

“Bobbi got out?”

“I heard her in the corridor. She was packing, and she had her escrima sticks. She worked her way through a dozen operatives. They chased her up to the roof. Clint managed to pick off a few of them with his arrows from the ground. He could barely stand, but he could still shoot. After that… it’s blurry. The memory keeps trying to bury itself. Just gives me bits and pieces, and all of them suck.”

“Well, this is touching.”

“Clint, Natasha is still recovering, she doesn’t need any -”

“ _She’s_ still recovering?!”

“Barton, stand down,” Steve warned. He rose from the bed and stood between Clint and Natasha. Sam held her protectively while Nat twisted around in the bed to face him. She looked stricken, shaking her head.

“I’m so sorry, Clint.”

“Are you?”

“You know I am… you know I am-”

“No, I don’t. I don’t even know _you_ , do I? Huh, Natasha? Or whoever the fuck you are. I thought you were my best friend.”

“When the hell were you gonna come clean about this, Nat?”

“Clint…”

“This is the kind of thing friends tell each other. Like, ‘Hey, that haircut makes your head look like a turnip,’ or ‘I drank the last of the milk and didn’t buy anymore because I spent the rest of my money on Amazon Prime.’” Clint plowed his fingers through his hair and glared at his best friend.

“Telling me ‘Hey, your wife isn’t really your wife’ is something you could’ve gotten around to telling me.” 

“Clint!”

“NO!” His voice rose on a plaintive whine. “No! I won’t do this with you. I don’t want any bullshit stories, Nat. Not from you. Don’t sit here and tell me you didn’t know about Laura! Don’t tell me you didnt know I was just playing house like fucking Old MacDonald!”

“It was classified, Barton! Even from _me_!”

“Nothing’s ever classified from you,” he shot back.

“Barton, calm down,” Sam warned him. 

“Why? Are you gonna lock me up? Have me fired? Court martialed? Kick me out of the fucking Stark clubhouse?”

“Clint-” Steve rose and reached for him, but Clint swatted away his hand.

“Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t you protect her. She owes me the truth.”

Natasha still sobbed weakly in Sam’s arms. “Barton, I’m sorry… believe me when I tell you that-”

“No. I won’t.”

And he fled.

*

 

SHIELD Headquarters, Containment Level:

 

Maria followed the guard into the viewing cubicle, and she stared in through the observation window at Laura Barton, or the woman who at least answered to that name.

She still looked battered, but she was clean and dressed in the plain, orange prison scrubs and a white cardigan. She gave Maria a serene smile.

“Well, well. Look who came to visit.”

“These digs aren’t as comfy as the house on the farm. Sorry I forgot to bring your wedding ring quilt.”

“I never liked it. It was kind of tacky. But it worked. Nothing like a little window dressing to get someone to buy whatever you’re selling, right?”

Maria huffed.

“You’re here about Clint?”

“No. I’m here for a sip and paint party.”

Laura laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Sure. SHIELD is all one big, happy family. How could I forget.”

“Unless you happen to be HYDRA.”

“What’s the difference? I saw the trial footage from Capitol Hill. I know Romanoff spilled it all. SHIELD, HYDRA… do you even know who’s signing your paychecks, Hill?”

“Did you work out a deal with them?”

“A deal? You think it was just a deal?” Laura leaned back in her chair and her shoulders slumped a little. “It must be nice to live in your little world, Hill.”

Maria crossed her legs and smiled. “It’s SHIELD’s world, Laura. You were a good agent. What made you turn?”

“I told you. SHIELD. HYDRA. It’s all the same.”

“Fury offered you a stable life with Barton.”

“It wasn’t stable just because I was off the grid, and my family paid the price.”

“The children were life decoy AIs,” Maria argued.

“The ones Clint knew. Who do you think they were modeled after?”

Maria frowned. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her seat. Laura’s smile looked less steady.

“They took them from me. They took my children, and they left those things in their place, like changelings in the cradle. And I had to play along. Fury thought he was keeping us all safe. It was a lie, the same way that SHIELD _always_ lies.”

“God,” Maria muttered.

It was just so much to unpack.

 

*

 

London:

 

“The nannite stealth unit was disabled. System shows it went offline two nights ago.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. All right. We’ll have to take a different tack.”

“Is it time for a family reunion?”

“Don’t call it that. Because that suggests that this could go any possible way but sideways, and we both know it can’t.”

“You knew what would happen once SHIELD was compromised.”

“It didn’t have to be this messy. _Nothing_ had to be _this_ messy.”

“Bobbi.”

She made a frustrated noise and rubbed her nape, fingernails scratching at her long, honey blonde hair. “What?”

“He deserves the truth. It’s only fair.”

“This will hurt him.”

 

“Well, no shit. But in the long run, it’ll _protect_ him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to get jumbled, because let's be real, I only had the plot of "Laura is HYDRA and the kids are robots" in my head when I first started this, but I really had no setup at all for why Clint would get that treatment in this story and what SHIELD would be covering up. Anyway. This is going to get weird. WeirdER. Like, run-completely-off-the-rails weird. But I hope you stick around. Sorry about the angst and yet another ugly cliffhanger. But I hope to keep this going.


	6. What They Mean By For Better or Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha could really use a hug. Clint could use some aspirin. Fury could really use a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t watch a lot of Agents of SHIELD, but I will draw on it *slightly* to keep this moving, because I don’t read the Avengers comics to know much about Bobbi Morse, either. I know this is convoluted, but I’m having fun with it.
> 
>  
> 
> Also: Trigger warning for a brief mention of past domestic abuse related to Clint's childhood. I didn't build the scene around it, but it's in there.

“FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Mr. Stark?”

“Where’s my silver Testarossa?”

“Mr. Barton borrowed it. He’s currently en route to his farm.”

“Did he give an ETA for when he would bring it back?”

“If you call ‘When I damned well fucking feel like it’ an ETA, then, yes, sir.”

Tony swung his arms back and forth, smacking his fist into his palm. “Okay. Barton’s gone rogue. And he’s taken my fifth favorite hot rod.”

“I can place a call for a status update, sir.”

“No. No need, FRIDAY. Sometimes, it’s better to make a house call. Gives it a more personal touch.” Tony took a generous gulp of his triple espresso. “Get me Romanoff.”

“In a jiffy, Mr. Stark.”

“Faster than that. I love that car.”

 

*

_Much later that afternoon:_

Natasha wasn’t sure what she expected when she arrived at the farm. What she found was the burnt, blackened remains of the house and the damaged barn, with the silver sports car parked out front, completely out of place with its surroundings. The property was deathly quiet; Natasha realized that all of Clint and Laura’s livestock was gone. SHIELD reclaimed its property once they recalled its operatives home and destroyed the comfortable facade of a family for Clinton Francis Barton. Nat’s stomach twisted at the sight of the front porch, scorched and destroyed. She’d helped Clint build it three summers ago. Cooper loved arranging his toy cars out there once the sunlight shifted to give him some shade. 

Oh, how it hurt.

She stepped gingerly through the wreckage, hands crammed deep into her pockets. The inside smelled acrid and charred. Warped, splintered floorboards and exposed rafters created a hazard but didn’t halt her progress. She knew he was inside, processing this and taking inventory. Counting all the lies that SHIELD told him when they gilded this cage. She saw bits and pieces of Laura’s knick-knacks and tchotchkes strewn across the ruined counters and floors. A mangled metal recipe box. Broken pasta jars. Nat saw the brown, curled edges of the wallpaper that used to decorate the dining room, formerly printed in bowls of pears and grapes. Nat bit back nausea the further back she walked when she saw the toys. The long-handled popcorn popper with the little rainbow balls inside the plastic globe was melted and bent in half. Nat let out a choked cry at the sight of Lila’s Barbies, looking like charred corpses.

“The _fuck_ are you doin’ here.”

Nat froze and closed her eyes, mastering herself. She turned and faced him, keeping her face bland. “Hoping I’m not overstaying my welcome.”

“Never stopped ya before.”

Nat winced.

Clint lifted the neck of the beer bottle to his lips, and she saw the scruff of stubble dirtying his drawn cheeks. Clint’s eyes looked bruised from a lack of sleep, and his hair was a wreck. His t-shirt was hopelessly wrinkled and faded from so many washings, rendering it difficult to read. Natasha made out “Carson’s Traveling Circus of Wonders” on the thin, purple cotton. “Hey. Ain’t gotta worry about there bein’ enough room to sleep. Pick any room ya want. I’ve sure as fuck got the space.” Clint threw his arm out in a gesture that mocked the concept of welcome. “Mi casa es _su_ casa. Least it was until a few days ago. I don’t even know anymore. I’ve got nuthin’.”

“Clint-”

“I’ve got NOTHING!”

The beer bottle shattered against the wall, soaking it with the scant remainder of amber liquid. It trickled down the ruined surface, and Nat stifled a gasp. One of the tiny shards bounced off and nicked her cheek, but Clint didn’t see it. He’d turned away from her, posture slumped but stiff as he rubbed his nape. The tiny wound burned her less than his rejection.

“ _Clint._ Please. Just-”

“Don’t. You didn’t come here to feed me another line of bullshit that you kept this from me for my own good, Natalia.”

“No.” She tried to keep her voice level, but it deepened with emotion. She could never maintain her cool mask with Barton, and up until now, she’d never had to try. “I didn’t come to feed you anything. I just needed to talk.”

Clint huffed a laugh, a miserable, dishonest sound. He shook his head and dragged his fingers through his already rumpled hair. “Sure. Fire away.”

“You said you had headaches. Before you remembered.”

“Who said I remembered anything? That’s the problem. Every goddamned thing up here -” he tapped his forefinger against his temple as he turned and faced her, finally - “is scrambled all to pieces. I looked at her, and all of the sudden, I didn’t _know her_. I saw that ring on her finger, and I couldn’t remember putting it there.”

“Of course you couldn’t. I remember it, but even that’s fading away,” Nat admitted. “Implanted memories.”

He shook his head and gave her a tight little smile. “Fuck. Yeah. Okay. That’s… that’s not making me feel any better.”

“That was supposed to be the original goal. But. No, we’re gonna do this. We’ve been needing to have this talk for a long time, Clint.”

His sigh sounded ragged and completely done. But when he glanced up at her again, he swore under his breath at the trickle of blood on her cheek. “I didn’t… shit. Hold on.” He rushed from the room, and Nat realized she’d been holding her breath. Her ribs hurt a little as they expanded, and she let the air out in a slow stream, trying to master herself. When Clint returned, his expression was guilty and a little sheepish. He handed her a cool, damp rag, somehow salvaged from the kitchen drawer. When she took it from him, he quickly jerked back his hand.

That hurt more than she cared to admit.

The air between them was heavy and stifling. Nat daubed her cut cheek, less out of concern for the pain, and more for sparing her jacket the bloodstain. Clint’s bloodshot eyes tracked her movements. He folded his arms and leaned back against the wall.

“Okay. Talk.”

“I haven’t been the same since Johannesburg,” Nat confessed. “I haven’t been sleeping that well. I’ve never slept _much_ ,” she amended. “But the dreams have been… off the hook.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore. I thought I had that sorted out when I left the Kremlin.” She offered him something resembling a smile. “You helped me get back on track.”

“Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Nat.”

“You did,” she pressed.

He shrugged. “Ain’t a big deal.”

“Yeah? We’ll agree to disagree, big guy.”

“What’d you dream about?”

She exhaled a shaky breath. “Budapest.”

His face did a thing. The muscles twitched, and she watched a shudder run through him. He shook his head.

“Don’t.”

“What? Don’t, what?”

“I don’t. I don’t want it. Don’t talk about it.”

“Clint-”

“I said, DON’T.”

She glared back at the denial in his tone, and the rage and anguish building in his eyes and stance. He pushed himself off of the wall and closed the gap between them, gripping her upper arms. “Don’t pull on that thread, Nat. Don’t do it, or I swear to God…”

 

“We have to hash this out, Barton!”

“No, we don’t!” His grip tightened almost painfully, and she lifted her chin in warning. “I don’t want this. D’you hear me?”

“You need the truth. Let me give you that, Clint.”

“You’re a fucking spy, Natalia. You don’t ‘do’ truth.”

“I do with you, you asshole.” She jerked her arm free and tried to put space between them, but he crowded her, until her back hit the wall. It smelled charred and the odor, along with the way his eyes seemed to peel her skin back, made her stomach churn. “You remember her. I know you do.”

His lips tightened, nostrils flaring, and he shook his head. “Don’t, Nat!”

“She was my friend, too! I loved her too, Clint! She was one of the best operatives we had!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, NAT.”

“ _Bobbi_.”

Nat only noticed that he was pressed against her, breathing her air in hot, shallow puffs, glaring down into her eyes, but she didn’t spare him. Not even when that last thread of resistance snapped, and his eyes went completely bleak.

To her horror, history repeated itself. Clint Barton crumpled, dropping to his knees. “Don’t.”

His voice was a wet rasp. He shook his head and wouldn’t look at her.

“You two were married for three years. You met her right after she finished her PhD in biology. She was a black belt. She loved boy bands and pretending to bend down to kiss you because she was taller than you, even in her bare feet. She did that just to give you shit.” Nat’s voice wavered. “Clint, she loved you so much.”

“Please. I don’t want this, Nat, I can’t. I can’t.”

She’d cut the strings holding him up, and all Clint could do was stare down at his hands. His voice went high-pitched and pleading. “Don’t make me do this.”

“I don’t want this for you. But I can’t live with myself if you don't know what I know. We’ve both been lied to. By SHIELD. By HYDRA.” She tasted a hint of bile on her tongue. “By Nick.”

“Fury.” 

“He signed off on this.”

He swung his eyes up to meet hers. “Are you _shitting_ me right now?”

“I wish I was.” Because she felt like she ate glass. His anger radiated from him in waves. He didn’t spare her from it out of friendship. Her hands itched to reach for him, but she kept them down.

Clint, broken, could only stare around at the wreckage. “All this. For what?”

“They wanted to give you back what you lost. And maybe a little more.”

He shook his head, but Nat nodded.

“A farm. You grew up on one. In Iowa. You and your brother.”

“Dad lost it because he couldn’t put the bottle down. He gambled it away before he and Mom died. Jesus…”

She had no answers for that, and he just let the words tumble out.

“Me and Barney. We’d hide up in the hay bales from him. He’d come home screaming. Drove his Chevy right into the tractor, once. Used all three of us as punching bags. So, what? This is it? This is my life? This is how _Fury_ thinks I should be living?”

Nat shrugged and folded her arms across her abdomen, giving herself the hug she’d learned not to expect from anyone else. “Maybe he wanted you to build this into something better than what you had.”

Clint scoffed, shaking his head.

“Sure. Play house. Take the kids to Little League and Tumbling for Tots. Be a pretend dad and act like I’m married.”

“I know what that’s like. To live a lie.”

Clint just glared at her through his tears. He swiped at his face with the back of his hand and shifted himself until he sat flat on his butt, hugging his knees. “Not _this_ lie.”

“The Bolshoi?” she prompted. “The Red Room? The Met?”

Clint shrugged, but she read understanding in the way his shoulders relaxed. Increments of tension bled out of him as he remembered those details about his oldest friend, shared furtively in safehouses or in smoky bars over rotgut, vodka, or dark ales. Always shoulder to shoulder, hips knocked together as they leaned over the bar or the kitchen counter, musing while they medicated themselves.

“I remember sold out performances and encores. Flowers. Orchestras. Just because I remember them, that doesn’t mean they happened.”

“They never gave you a family that wasn’t yours.”

“Because they _took_ the family that I came from.” The rest of the words felt wrong, and she bit them back.

“Neck hurts. From lookin’ up at you. Get the fuck down here.” He waved her down with an impatient hand. Nat knew that the invitation didn’t guarantee forgiveness. They just needed to see things at the same level.

She sprawled just as inelegantly next to him. Shoulder to shoulder. He smelled like Heineken and spilled coffee, not to mention at least two days sleeping in the same clothes. But it was tangible and familiar. They wallowed together in the ashes of that deception. Natasha remembered a burning house, too, and her own arms outstretched as she was carried away from it, forced to watch it grow smaller. Her parents’ screams still reached her ears on the breeze while the billows of smoke and flames mocked her with their strangely cheery, orange glow.

“Fury ever offer you a husband?” Clint asked dryly.

“No. But the KGB did. It didn’t pan out.”

“Fuck… never mind. That’s right. My bad, Nat. I’m sorry.”

“Forget about it.”

“Yeah. Well.” He threw up his hand. “So. This makes me a widow. Maybe I should change my codename.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I’m not a father.”

“Clint…”

He shuddered again, shook his head, and a harsh sob rattled out of his chest. “All this. For _what_. For what, Nat.”

“Closure. Maybe they thought it would help you to heal.”

“I have nothing. I don’t have a family. Now that they took that thing out of my head, this is it. There’s nothing left.”

Dr. Cho disabled the nannite implant in Clint’s brain, disrupting the external signals and reconfiguring the code. Now, it couldn’t interrupt the impulses in Clint’s brain responsible for his stress responses to disturbing memories. Confusion gradually slipped away, letting candor rise up in its place. Dr. Cho performed the microsurgery to remove the implant and then regenerated the damaged tissue, including the hair follicles. Clint’s scalp didn’t even have a noticeable scar. His brain still fought the memories, testing each one and throwing them out like stale garbage.

“Don’t say that.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” His cheeks were wet and his eyes looked so empty. “Am I supposed to go back to being Fury’s good little spy? Or his second favorite killer?”

He delivered those words like a slap. 

Nat shoved him back. She propelled herself to her feet and put space between them again. “I deserved that?”

“Yeah. Every damn bit of it. You weren’t planning on lying to me today, so.”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

“Not today. S’too soon.”

The wind left her sails. “Damn you, Clint.” Irritation spread over Nat’s flesh like a rash. She reminded herself that their friendship had never been built on coddling, but… no. She wouldn’t play this game with Clint Barton.

She hurried from the remains of the bedroom. She didn’t hear footsteps behind her until she made it to the kitchen. Shame. Guilt. Betrayal. Rage. Helplessness. All of these sped her steps, but she heard Clint’s quickened breathing behind her.

“Aw, Nat! NAT! No! Don’t! You don’t get to just… goddamnit!”

“We’re done with this, Barton. I’m done blowing smoke up your ass.” Her strides were stiff, and she heard his uneven breathing and low grunt of annoyance.

But when he caught up to her, catching her wrist and forcing her to spin on him, she read the regret in his face. 

“Because that’s all I am, right?” Her voice went husky, and Nat’s traitorous eyes sparked. “Fury’s favorite? Because ‘I’m okay with everything?’” 

Steve had shared that with her, once, in another dive bar before he left with Wilson to find Sergeant Barnes. They’d stood not quite shoulder to shoulder; they enjoyed friendship, even if it was a little stilted. That had been a night of hard truths, too, over gin and tonic with lime, murmured beneath the din of the crush of bodies around them and terrible cover band music. _Agent Romanoff is comfortable with everything._ She’d had to be, as a means of survival. But it made it hard to look at the woman in the mirror.

So damned _hard_.

“That’s not all… fuck, Natalia! Don’t do this! You don’t just get to sweep in here and read me the riot act about accepting the truth and act like none of this shit touches you. Your hands are dirty. But I’ll tell you one thing: You didn’t turn that ledger red all by yourself. We’re both in shit. You’re not just his favorite because you get the job done. You get it done, and you make it home, even when ‘home’ doesn’t mean the same thing to people like us that it does to everybody else.”

“Get off! Let me go, Barton!” she gritted out. Her tone was urgent and lacked her former calm while she teetered on that edge. She wrested her arm free again, only for him to grab it and hold onto her more tightly. Natasha struggled with him, settling for kicking his shins, and he danced away from her attack, evading the worst of it, and he saw her eyes gleaming and heard her sniffling breaths.

“You’re not walking away from me!”

“You think I lied to you, because Fury expected it, but you know me better than that!”

“Well, no _shit!_ I do. God, Nat, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sorry… fuck. I don’t know what to do with this. It’s too much to unpack. This isn’t my life, and I don’t know what’s even left. I don’t…”

His voice died and he closed his eyes. Tension thrummed in his arms, in his throat and lines of his shoulders, and that little vein popped in and out in his temple. “I don’t have anyone I can trust, and I’m scared to fucking death that this is it. That I’m empty. That I’m not-”

She stopped struggling and tolerated his grip, which gentled when he realized that she wasn’t fighting her way toward her bike anymore. She lowered her head and made a tiny, mewling sound.

“Oh, shit. Nat, no, don’t, don’t… Natalia. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

One moment she had her eyes on her bike and the keys in her grip. The next, she stumbled up against his bulk, and her world tilted on its access. Those were his arms, enveloping her and stopping her flight. Supporting her when her legs wanted to give out. Her hands trembled as they found the span of his back, and she clung to him as the emotions that she’d pushed down from the moment she left the tower fought their way out of her chest.

“Damn it, Clint…”

“The world’s gotta be ending right now, because you never cry. Fuck. Nat. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. God, Nat… I’m so _fucking_ sorry.” His blunt nails lightly scratched her scalp, and he combed his fingers through her hair, a rare gesture between them. The action pulled a few strands too taut, making it smart, but even that mild sting brought her back to herself.

“Why? You don’t have to be,” she insisted, but her tears felt hot and thick. Her nose ran and the world didn’t make sense unless he was there, holding her up, the only familiar voice in the clamor of her memories. Her fingers curled in the hem of his awful shirt, and she breathed in the pong of his sweat and beer. She couldn’t stop shaking. “I wanted better for you. I wanted so much better for you.”

“Yeah, well. That makes two of us, I guess. But I don’t know how that works, anymore. I’m a disaster, buddy.”

“I didn’t know this wasn’t real, until it was too late. Everything felt right, until it didn’t. I trusted her, too. And you were so happy. I loved them. I loved your kids, Clint. I really did.”

He stroked a hand over her sweep of hair and sighed out a frustrated breath; she felt the sound in her bones. “I wanted this to be real for you.”

They stood together, just listening to the breeze rattling the tree branches and flocks of starlings in the distance. “Yeah, well. Me, too. You’re getting my shirt wet.”

Yet when she managed a laugh and tried to pull away, he held her against him, like he couldn’t let go.

“You told me what it was like. When you thought you were going clean, and you found out you were still working for the bad guys. That we both were. When does it get better?” he muttered. “When do we get to say we’re done, Nat?”

“In our line of work, we’re never ‘done,’ Barton. You know that.”

“Yeah? I’ve got some opinions on that. Nat. I think I’m out. I think I’m done.”

She went stiff in his arms, and his hands paused in the act of gently stroking her hair and back.

“You’d do that. You’d quit?”

“You don’t grow old and retire from this life. If you’re gonna live, you quit. Plain and simple.” She heeded his silent cue and stepped back from his embrace, and her face shuttered.

“I said I wanted better things for you, so maybe this is one of those things. It could be, if you’re really planning on going through with it.”

Clint’s sigh carried the weight of the world. He tugged on the back of his hair and shrugged. “I don’t know if I can work for Fury anymore. He moved me around like a puppet. I don’t know whether or not I’m coming or going anymore when it comes to SHIELD. And it turns out that my so-called wife was on the _payroll_.”

“Right. In the meantime, back to business.”

“Business needs to include dinner. That bike of yours got enough gas to go into town? I need my Guido’s fix.”

“All meat?”

“All meat. Now, you’re telling me something I wanna hear.”

“Then, hop on.”

He rode behind her out of long habit, initially balking that she could take the helmet, but she reached into her pocket and pressed a small, red device against his temple. In an instant, a visored helmet loosely patterned after Tony’s armor unfolded itself around his head, locking into place. “Sweet,” he pronounced. “Bet I look like a total tool.”

“I’ll still be seen with you,” Nat assured him. They weren’t back to their usual ease. Not yet. But when Clint held onto her waist, and they leaned into the curves of the road as one entity, a bit of their trust sparked and held. 

Just like old times.

 

*

Nick reviewed the briefing reports at his desk, with the room-darkening blinds closed and his phone turned off. He took a long swallow of water from the glass and wished it was something stronger. Barton’s surgical report and the history and physical dictation from Dr. Cho sat on the other side of his blotter, waiting for him to review, but he already knew what it said. Hill gave him the highlights before she left his office. Nick tried to convince himself that the pounding in his temples would just go away once he got some fresh air.

The problem with working in the spy business for so long, though, was that you learned to lie to _yourself_ after a while, as often as you did to everybody else.

The small buzzer sounded, telling him that one of his agents decided to ignore his memo that he wanted to remain undisturbed and unavailable for the next half an hour. He pressed the intercom button and smoothly told his unwanted guest, “I told the secretary that I wanted no interruptions.”

“I think this is one of those times where you’re going to have to trust me when I tell you I know what’s better for you than you do, right now, Director Fury.”

The papers in his hand fluttered. His hand didn’t stop shaking even after he set them down. That voice. Midwest accent. A light, rich alto with flat vowels. That familiar hint of laughter, entirely at his expense. A voice that his conscience, long burdened with guilt, reminded him was gone from this plane of existence. Nicholas J. Fury believed in seemingly impossible things. Men who could survive a downed plane plunging into the ocean. Women who could manipulate reality. Gods who could come down from the sky and speak to the common man and create thunder. 

He never believed that one of his agents could come back from the _dead_.

He rose from his chair and asked his legs to carry him without giving out, just a few moments more. Nick released the locks on the door and pressed the entry switch, allowing it to slide open.

She stared him in the eye without having to look up. Still fresh-faced and mildly tanned. The same honey blonde hair waved down her back in loose curls. Dark blue eyes watched him hopefully. Carefully. There was contrition etched across her features, and when he lingered silent for too long, unable to take in what he was seeing, a small divot formed between her brows.

“Hey, big guy.”

“That’s… Director to you.”

“Okay. Agreed.” She nodded, and her composure faltered.

“Bobbi,” he said softly. “What. In the _hell._ ”

“I know you probably want some kind of explanation for th-”

The words were extinguished by the force of his embrace, and Roberta Morse, SHIELD Agent First Class, assumed killed in duty, made a sound halfway between a chuckle and a sob. He needed the tangible proof, because his other senses might lie to him. Nick also needed her to ground him, because the overwhelming rush of awe, confusion, and mind-twisting relief almost gave him a _heart attack_.

“Okay,” she told him instead. “It’s okay.”

A tear slipped free from beneath his distinctive leather eye patch. 

“I’m getting too old for these kinds of surprises.” His voice sounded hoarse.

“Then it’s time to retire, Director, sir.”

“When hell freezes over.”

Her expression resumed calm lines when he released her, and Nick pulled her inside his office, resetting the locks. “You look good for a dead woman.”

“Yeah. That’ll never get old. That was what May said when she reactivated my clearance.”

That sobered him. “Active. You’re active, again? Since when?”

“Three months ago,” she admitted. “I had a few things to take care of.”

“Such as?”

“Building a new identity. Kind of hard to pay taxes or renew your driver’s license without one. Even trickier when you don’t have any fingerprints. My bank hates me.”

“But. You’re _active_.”

“Nick.” She gave him a pointed look. “Come on. You were the one who told me that SHIELD compartmentalizes _everything_.”

She watched him process it. Saw the minute shifts in his expression and gestures before he picked up his glass of water and drained it.

“If anyone had shared this particular revelation with me, Agent, I might have lost a little less sleep.”

“You still _sleep_?”

He huffed. “So. We need to talk.”

“I can bring you up to speed in five minutes.”

“Hold that thought. I need to bring _you_ up to speed first.” 

That took her aback. Nick slid over the manila folder that he’d been waiting to read, deciding she had a greater need to see it than he did.

“Our biophysicist and her team of surgeons performed a procedure on Agent Barton. They removed a neurotransmitting surveillance device and a nannite probe from his cerebral cortex.”

“Ah.”

Her tone was too calm, her expression nonplussed.

“About that, Director.”

Nick scowled and leaned forward in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Do you have something to share?”

“Our head of innovation in our science unit calls it ‘The Busybody.’ Nannite technology. Small and inobtrusive. It runs on a gatekeeper protocol.”

“You’re familiar with it, then?”

“Ohhhhhh. You could say that.”

“Agent Morse. _Explain._ ”

“Okay. Maybe I should bring _you_ up to speed.” She braced herself, taking a cleansing breath. “I know you instigated a security protocol to prevent Agent Barton from suffering from the emotional harm on the night I was taken out of commission.”

“You mean, on the night you _died_.”

“Semantics,” she said dismissively. “I know Agent Barton was compromised.”

“Yes, Agent Barton was compromised and suffering from the shock and emotional trauma. Agent Romanoff brought him in under duress. According to the pilot’s report, she had to subdue him.”

“Romanoff?”

“She uses different identities. Agent Romanoff hails from Russia.”

Bobbi’s brow wrinkled for a moment, before her mouth formed an ‘O’ of recognition. “You’re kidding. _The_ Agent Natasha Romanoff? The one you sent to recruit Stark?”

“She wasn’t sent to recruit him. She was sent to protect him. But Agent Romanoff can be very persuasive when the situation calls for a delicate touch.”

“How delicate a touch did you need with Stark? The man’s not subtle.”

“Stark eventually came around, on his own speed. Despite rumor to the contrary, he plays well with others. Some of the time. He and Agent Romanoff enjoy a successful working relationship.”

“Working… relationship?”

“Just work.”

“Interesting.”

“That being said…”

“Uh-oh…”

“You have some explaining to do. Your husband had to mourn you.”

Her smile dropped. “Did he?”

“Profoundly, Agent Morse.” There was grit in Nick’s voice. “As I said, he was _compromised_.”

Bobbi had to look away. Her breath was shaky, and she cleared her throat. “That’s the chance we take when we go into this business. It’s never a good idea to work with your spouse, right? I mean, I’m kinda going through the same thing again, now-”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Uh.” She paused, realizing that she’d probably said too much. “It’s. It’s a recent development. And it’s. Comp. Licated. Yeah.”

Nick just sat and stared. 

“Right,” she told him. “Where do you even want me to _start?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a while to update. I work nights, now, so my sleep is at a premium.


End file.
